Galaxy v38n06 (1977 08)

THE BEST FROM

Masterworks by some of the finest
science-fiction writers of our time:

Michael Bishop Larry Niven
J. E. Pournelle Joanna Russ
Roger Zelazny

AND MANY, MANY, MORE!

EDITED BY JAMES BAEN

THE BEST FROM GALAXY, VOLUME IV (AR 1599) Is
now available. To order, send the title and number,
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Vol. 38, No. 6 AUGUST 1977

Arnold E. Abramson, Publisher

Stephen Fabian, An Director J.E. Pournelle. Ph. D., Science Editor

L.C. Murphy, Subscriptions Dept. Spider Robinson, Contributing Editor
Elaine Will, Assistant Editor Theodore Sturgeon, Consulting Editor

James Patrick Baen, Editor

NOVELETTES

AND EARTH SO FAR AWAY, H.C. Petley 9

Shipwreck and survival, intrigue and
secession: a tale of courage and cunning on
the High Frontier.

THE PHEROMONAL FOUNTAIN, Arsen Darnay 116

Introducing Mandraid Friday — with his PSIchic
nose for trouble. What need has he for sinus
cavities?

SHORT STORIES

PERFECTLY SAFE, NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT,

Chari es Sheffield 34

Once again we meet Henry Carver, sole
survivor of the original Matt in Link experiments.

He's on Mars now, and as pusillanimous a
hero as ever. But he still has a gift for
survival . . .

THE ALL-SOUL IS CALLING QUINLAN, Jay Brandon 145

The massed consciousness of the human race
versus one recalcitrant Irishman: No Contest!

SERIAL (Part IV of IV)

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT, Frank Herbert 55

Jedrik's forces are on the verge of
overwhelming Broey, thus enabling her to
loose her vengeful people on a helpless
universe — but in less than sixty hours Dosadi
itself will face destruction.

SPECIAL FEATURE

POSTSCRIPT TO GATEWAY, Frederik Pohl 30

Seldom indeed does an artist allow his public
to peer over his shoulder, as it were, while in
the final stages of the preparation of a Master-
piece. In this special postscript to Gateway,

Fred Pohl does just that.

FEATURES

SHOWCASE, James R. Odbert inside front cover

SF CALENDAR 4

EDITORIAL, James Baen 5

GALAXY AND THE GALAXY— Or. Who Needs
Planets, Anyway?

A STEP FARTHER OUT, J.E. Pournelle 44

A TIME FOR DECISIONS — We shall nobly win

or meanly lose the last best hope of Earth." So
far, too many of the decisions seem to be of
the ‘meanly lose' variety. Write your
Congressman— and your President, too.

THE ALIENT VIEWPOINT, Alter Ego (with Dick Gets) 110

The genesis of Alter — and some help for our
friends.

BOOKSHELF, Spider Robinson 133

No more Mr. Nice Arachnid — the Spider bares
his mandibles — and sinks them into Academe.

DIRECTIONS 154

Interior illustrations by Aulisio, Dalzell, Fabian, Odbert
Cover by Kelly Freas, from his Portfolio

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GALAXY

Editorial

GALAXY and the GALAXY

In the past four years or so some-
thing on the order of twenty
thousand manuscripts have passed
through my hands. After the first
few thousand I became suspicious.
After ten thousand the suspicion
thickened. Now, after twenty
thousand manuscripts I am certain:
science fiction, as a growing, con-
ceptually vital field, is in a state of
crisis, a crisis of ideas, a crisis that
it may not survive.

Oh, as a minor, formula-oriented
literary subgenre — or sub-literary
genre — it is secure enough. More
people than ever seem to be reading
it; the moguls of television and Hol-
lywood are beginning to take a seri-
ous interest. But where are the new
ideas? In television? The movies?
The formula in those honorable
media seems to be to take some an-
tique theme from the 40 ’s or
50’ s — adventures aboard the crip-
pled, multi-generation colony ship
that will forever wander aimlessly
between the stars, or aboard the
FTL vessel that has slipped into a
"space warp” and is Lost In
Space — and adapt it. Adaptation
meaning in this case to bastardize,
prostitute, mindlessly oversimplify,
and otherwise make suitable for the

moguls’ conception of the mass-
mentality what was initially in hon-
est if somewhat be whiskered sci-
ence fictional conception. Even the
many new readers (long may they
prosper!) are mostly interested in
what science fiction has been, not
what it is becoming.

And who can blame them? What
little there is in the way of original-
ity in modern science fiction con-
sists in the main of variations on the
theme of human misery. Misery
without end — an all-embracing,
open-ended misery that is almost
admirable in its single-minded af-
firmation that the game of life is
fixed: that you’ve got to play; that
you can’t win; and that in every
possible aspect of its potentially in-
finite variation, now and forever,
the playing itself must be a misera-
ble experience, filled with pain, de-
void of joy. An affirmation, in
other words, that it is better to be
dead tban to be alive.

Is it any wonder, then, that the
latest re-issue of The City and the
Stars is selling like hotcakes? Or
that the Foundation Trilogy is in its
umpteenth printing? Hardly. People
— even intelligent people — can be
told only so many times that life by

EDITORIAL

definition is a bucket of sewage
with the handle inside, firmly af-
fixed to the bottom of the bucket,
before they wander off to look for
the latest Asimov or Heinlein re-
issue, even if it is Lucky Star and
the Pirates of the Asteroids, or
Have Spacesuit — Will Travel. I’ve
done it myself.

Are there then no glorious new
conceptions equivalent for the 70’ $
and 80’ s of what space travel and
extraterrestrial intelligence were for
an earlier time? Have we indeed mn
out of ideas? Is there nothing left
but infinite variations on a strictly
limited number of antique themes,
the mental poverty being at best
obscured under the guise of literary
experimentation?

For a while I thought that that
might indeed be the case, but I have
since concluded that far from there
being too few ideas, there are too
many, and that taken together, as
they must be, they offer, insist
upon, a “universe of discourse” so
varied and vast in scope that it de-
fies the imagination and perhaps
even (dare I say it?) the intelligence
of the best of us, even unto our sci-
ence fiction writers, brilliant as they
all undoubtedly are.

Indeed, it may well be the case
that the reason, the real reason, for
the nearly universal nihilism in
modem sf — sf that is not merely a
rehashing of old themes — is that the
ramifications of assuming continued
progress in science and technology
are simply too difficult to conceive,

that such future vistas are simply
too vast to be grasped.

So where are all these ideas that I
claim are being willfully ignored?
The same place they always were:
in the writings of scientists and their
popularizers. Virtually every area of
science is pregnant with major,
high-social-impact developments, de-
velopments that are not, many of
them, “looming on the horizon,”
but are literally waiting for funding.

Space: Microwave -powered stel-
lar probes; O’Neill colonies; as-
teroid mining; orbital power-
generating stations; planetary en-
gineering (Venus, in particular, is
ripe for the plucking).

Biology: Recombinant DNA re-
search (maybe that should wait on
the availability of orbital lab-
oratories); “btu bushes,” plants
capable of harvesting ten or twenty
percent of the sunlight that falls on
them; a cloned work force of semi-
intelligent simians that are bred for
happiness, docility — and manual
labor; biological sewage systems
capable of reharvesting, with the aid
of sunlight, everything that is
dumped into them.

Cybernetics: Artificial Intel-

ligence (called “A. I." by those
in the field); “hand calculators”
that by virtue of being mobile ex-
tensions of giant computers (see
“Artificial Intelligence") have avail-
able to them the sum total of
human knowledge and computa-
tional capacity, devices that would
make all but the dullest of us

GALAXY

hyper-intelligent and almost omnis-
cient.

The list is endless; the available
grist for the science fictional mill is
virtually infinite, both in variety and
quantity.

But there is a kicker: it’s all or
nothing. The writer cannot just go
to the idea shelf, posit one that he
likes, and proceed to examine its
implications in isolation from all the
rest. If any of them happen, they all
happen, or at least a very large
number of them do. There will be
no O’Neill colonies without plenti-
ful power, without asteroid mining
giving us a super abundance of
minerals, without amplified human
intelligence, without, without every-
thing.

That’s pan of the problem. It gets
worse: each one of these develop-
ments is but the tip of a conceptual
iceberg of further developments and
applications.

Take the laser, for one example.
At first it was an interesting gadget
useful for measuring distant objects
and cutting close ones in a spectacu-
lar manner, with maybe distant ap-
plications as a communications de-
vice. Now it is, or soon will be, a
space propulsion system, a surgical
tool, the heart of an anti -ballistic -
missile system, a “science fiction
death-ray,” and who knows what
else.

The same is true for all the de-
velopments now pending. Let's take
just one of them and follow its
ramifications as far as imagination

Colonies
in Space

by T. A. Heppenheimer

introduction by Ray Bradbury

THE LIFE FORCE SPEAKS—
WE MOVE TO ANSWER

STACKPOLE BOOKS

P.O. Box 1831

Cameron and Kelker Streets
Harrisburg, PA 17105

SI 2.85

fortified by a few calculations will
take us.

The O'Neill colonies: assume that
they are feasible. Assuming that,
you have also assumed that they are
pretty much, in the long run at
least, resource-independent of earth
— that they can grow their own
food from raw materials of extra-
terrestrial origin, and that they have
manufacturing capacity such (hat
they are capable of self-replication
(which latter capacity (hey will pos-
sess almost by definition; the first
colonies will, after all, have virtu-
ally built themselves).

What, then, would be the “limits
of growth” for such colonies? Other
than human procreativity the only
limiting factor 1 can come up with

EDITORIAL

is mass (which would come into
play long before available sun-
power — the famous “Dyson Lim-
it” — would become a factor).
In other words, conservatively
speaking, the potential “mass” of
humanity would seem to be limited
only by the present mass of the
solar system's asteroids, moons and
smaller planets — and I suspect that
when they are needed the means
will be available for plucking the
gas giants as well.

Note, please, that we are not talk-
ing here of some unimaginably dis-
tant, million-years-hence future; in
terms of the already etapsed lifetime
of our species the urbanization of
the solar system is but an eyeblink
away. Even in the short term the fi-
gures are startling.

Starting with a core population of
fifty thousand colonists in the Year
2000, by 2250 there will be more
people in space than presently re-
side on this planet. By the Year
2600 there will be a trillion, far
more than earth could possibly
hold. Before the fourth millennium
has run its course, a quadrillion —
and population pressure will begin
to be such that the more adventur-
ous will have headed for the stars,
in perfect indifference as to whether
such stars have "earth- like”

planets, so long as there is mass
available. The Great Exodus will
have begun

Assuming a propulsion system
capable of attaining a velocity one-
tenth that of light (.1 c, or 30,000
km./sec.), in a few million years it

will be over. The galaxy will be-
long to humanity. . .or will it be
over? Perhaps the yawning gulfs be-
tween the galaxies will not seem so
unbridgeable by then.

Ok. That’s as far as I can go with
space colonies. Now add in-
telligence amplification (is it a per-
son or a machine — only the compo-
site entity knows for sure). Artifi-
cial intelligence. Inevitable contact
with non-human intelligences (if we
can’t find them, we’ll breed them).
A thousand other things. Now mix
them all together — and don’t forget
that they will all interact on each
other and on us in infinitely com-
plex fashion, and at an ever-
accelcrating pace.

Now add at least one fundamental
development on a par with lasers
and space colonies that has not yet
been conceived; any story pretend-
ing to deal with the future that does
not have at least one such is mere
fantasy.

Now write me a story that takes
all of this at least implicitly into ac-
count.

Clearly our future, if we have
• one at all, is so complex as to seem
beyond mortal comprehension: what
then of fictional portrayal of that fu-
ture? Who among us can take this
kaleidoscope of ever shifting, un-
ending, always interacting and evolv-
ing marvels and fix it in his mental
grasp? Can anyone? As a science-
fiction editor I can only hope that
one of you out there will prove to
me that it can be done.

— Baen

GALAXY

.and earth so far
away

Herbert Charles Petleg

my*

33

o

^ Science Fiction ^

H.C. Petley . . . AND EARTH SO FAR AWAY
Frank Herbert Frederik Pohl J.E. Pournelle

ARSEN DARNAY SPIDER ROBINSON CHARLES SHEFFIELD

The tank spun slowly in far
cold space at the inner reaches of
the asteroid mines. A sparkling frost
clung to it; water condensed and
frozen on its aluminum skin, water
condensed alter the blast and wreck-
age of a mining platform . They
were all a mass of tanks, those
ships, great tanks and clusters of
pipes, miles of pipes curving back
on each other, and miles of wires,
all propelled by supersteam gener-
ated from uranium fires. The steam
engine was a remarkable device.
Who would have thought that the
same principle that powered Watt
and Fulton would, three hundred
years later, power a mining plat-
form half a mile long, hung up in
space to sweep asteroids? The old
fiction writers were the only ones
who dared. No sane scientist would
have ventured it. They knew some-
thing, those old dreamers.

The men lay sleeping in a simu-
lated night. Eleven forms tied into
cocoons tied neatly to the bulkhead
in designated rows. One sleep-
net lay empty. Avo looked at it, a
withered weightless pod. He lis-
tened in the dim light, a gloom that
was almost dark. He could hear the
men breathing in their dreams.
Planet dreams. Wild rivers of Earth
and cumulus clouds towering over
green islands set in silver blue
sea . . . baked powdery plains
stretched before lunar craters, the
rims of the craters etched against
the black night of space . . . ruddy
dreams of Mars when the lichen

fields bloomed and children in their
aitpaks scampered over the mounds
of tektites digging for rubies. Mars,
Moon, Earth.

They slept, these planetmen in a
frosted tank in space. Avo looked
again at the empty sleepnet.
“Stupid Earth man,” he whispered.
“I’m sony you’re dead.’’ His voice
surprised him. It was like the
wheezy breathing of the sleepers.
“Tassmor,” he thought, “you
knew it all! Captain, manager,
navigator. You were stilt an Earth-
man.” Avo wondered in the night
and knew he could not sleep. He
peeked at his timex; three hours and
twelve minutes before wake-up, be-
fore the tank lighted up for day side.
Tassmor would never wake up.

Sixteen days they had floated like
this since the blast and breakup of
the platform. They all had plenty of
time to make it back to the house,
or command module in the en-
gineer's lingo. The breakup took
five days, irrevocable destruction. A
biliion-dolJar cluster of machinery
blown to pieces, a million tons of
water, a million tons of assorted
ores, mostly chromium, worth who
knew how much? It was plain disas-
ter. They were lucky no one was
killed outright. Tassmor had died on
the fourth day, out in space in his
air suit. He was supervising Avo
and Hennings as they cut away a
giant section of superstructure that
threatened to keep them spinning
with an uncontrollable yaw.
Tassmor shouldn’t have been out

10

GALAXY

there, It was an Earthman stunt, a
show of (he dynamic man in full
command of a disaster.

Tassmor was thirsty for Ihe ad-
venture of space. He should have
stayed within the house, or rather,
since he was first and forever an
engineer, his command module. To
any spacer it was the house.
Tassmor had come out to see the
adventure of Avo, ship's first
officer and only Martian navigator;
Avo with twenty-three annuals in
space, ten of those years on the ice
shuttles to Saturn; Avo and Hen-
nings, a junior roustabout from
Moon, had to cut away the hanging
piece of superstructure with laser
torches. It was a grandstand event
for Tassmor. What a tale to tell the
Earthlings after the rescue, after his
retirement to the rolling horseback
hills of Virginia. Tassmor had the
rescue all figured out until (he G
force of (he yaw gave an unknowa-
ble torque to the fragment of in-
genious machine that spun out and
cracked him across the back,
squeezing him dead in his air suit
against the hull of the housetank.
The suit popped like a little balloon.
Avo had advised against Tassmor
coming out. It was just one man too
many for Ihe job. But Tassmor was
both captain and manager.

That was part of the Earthman
mystique which the owners of the
corporate mining vehicles and plat-
forms created. The captains were
always Earthmen. No Martian had
ever been assigned command of a

mining complex nor was likely to,
given the current state of politics.
Mars had two break-away colonies
now. Two independent cities grown
up outside the authority of the
Constitutional government. The
three recognized Martian city-states,
Marsport, Crater, and Vostokgrad,
were unwilling to abandon their
maverick offspring, indeed unable
to especially considering lhat the
two rebel colonies each had nuclear
missile capacity as well as their
own comsats and wide ranging sup-
port from spacers far and near.

The first independent colony,
called Vandis and NovaMars Com-
munity, had sprouted up one winter
taking Earth completely by surprise.
This historical precedent was clear
and present, however, and the sur-
prise only served to prove how far
Earth was from the realities of Mars
and the potential riches available
these past fifty annuals from as-
teroid mines.

In one annual the first new col-
ony had created its own breeder
reactors, its own glass factory, its
own miles of agriculture domes.
They made good contracts with
wildcat miners and arranged to
carry their own nuclear wastes to a
docking orbit out among the rocks
in asteroid space. The Earth -
generated embargoes, boycotts and
restrictions prohibited them from
trading nuclear by-products down to
Moon Industries. Moon did what
Earth decided Moon would do. But
Mars was another story.

AND EARTH SO FAR AWAY

11

The second rebel colony had
sprouted the following spring in the
southern hemisphere and that wasn't
even broadcast on Earth. It didn't
have a name. It existed, however, a
true rebel city founded by renegade
Russians and privateer pirates from
America. The two made natural,
historical allies; the Ruskies were
calculating scientists, slow moving
but secure in their methods and long
range plans, the American pirates
unpredictable, daring and rich with
treasures dug out of space. Both re-
veled in conspiracies and the out-
ward display of arms.

The southern Mars hemisphere
was virtually uninhabited. Only a
few isolated weatherstations or Earth-
side scientific teams existed there.
The pirate city had such awesome
potential that many rumors were fly-
ing of an armed Earth expeditionary
force. But that was rumor. Earth
was so far away and the renegade
colonies still quite small.

Avo zipped out of his sleepnet
and moved weightless to the opera-
tions deck. The robot pilot moni-
tored their position and the life sys-
tems. All other functions were
dead. They could send microwave,
but not receive. Their distress signal
was heard all over space but rescue
would be long in coming, despite
Tassmor's polyanna plans.

Already, those plans had jeopar-
dized the remaining lives on board.
12

The torque twisting wreckage that
killed Tassmor had tom away the
high gain antennae. Avo and Hen-
nings had rigged a sending beam on
the seventh day. But so far they
hadn’t put together a receiving dish.
And this crew so advanced in all
space techniques!

Six were miners from the NATO
group, all Earthmen with pictures of
wives and children and grandparents
pressed in plastic frames. Good
workers, honest men who sent big
credits back to Earth. Two were
Americans, young, healthy, tireless
and bound to become Martians,
both of them, as soon as their visas
were cleared. The two others were
Moonmen who didn't like being
called Moonies or Lunies and worst
of all Moaners. It was Moonman or
fight with those dudes, fantastic
rock miners excellent with explo-
sives, natural no-grav spacemen
who were also quiet, credit-wise,
and not much interested in Mars or
Earth. And then there was
Avo . . . first officer and navigator,
the one and only Martian, very soon
to be a deserter.

There was no other way. Tassmor
had set them on a rescue plan that
was filled with Earth logic and this
was outer space, the edge of the as-
teroid belt. Mars was way across
the sun on the far side of its orbit
relative to the position that the
housetank was holding. There were
sixteen other mine platforms in
space, all save one plowing the
uranium and cobalt strike in the

GALAXY

dense rock fields of sector 440. The
other miner was a slim possibility if
the damage to their own complex
had been moderate, but this had
been a major disaster. The machine
was totaled and they were lucky,
only lucky, to escape without more
deaths. They could never reach the
nearest miner without propulsion
and scanner reception.

There was only one way from
A vo's space-minded focus point. He
would have to desert and he would
have to go now. If he didn't he
would be a dead man in a hollow,
frost covered, tank floating through
the rocks with ten other dead men,
all zipped neatly into their sleep-
nets.

Avo took a long last look at the
latest guidance print-out and logged
the All-System position coordinates
in his mind. Now was the time
while the others were sleeping. He
floated to the equipment deck and
donned his airsuit, then opened the
inner hatch of the airlock, stepped
in, locked it, and pressed the vac-
uum pump. The outer hatch eased
open and he pulled himself out into
space. A thirty- foot, all puipose
mint-tug was tethered to the frosty
housetank hull. He unsnapped the
tethers and pushed off, climbed up
to the bubble of the jumpseat and
popped it open. When he was
seated at the controls, he pulled the
bubble down and activated the air-
pump. When the pressure equalized,
he detached his space helmet and
began his slow, quiet drift away

toward life and freedom. If his
gambit was successful, he would
survive the disaster and perhaps,
Good Space, perhaps save the lives
of the men he was leaving behind.

The mini-tug< were propelled by
hydrogen kept under great pressure
in cryogenic tanks. A small turbine,
working from the same expanding
gas system, provided the energy to
spin the generators that turned out
the electricity necessary to govern
the craft and give it life. It was not
a long distance vehicle. Its air and
propulsion systems were limited,
designed for work near the mining
platform. They also served as life-
boats on occasion but only for one
man. There were twelve on the plat-
forms according to regulations, al-
though it was rare that more than
two or three were ever used at a
time; platform disasters weren't
supposed to happen.

Avo spun the silver cylinder craft
about and headed aft of the glisten-
ing housetank. There was a
comsat-astrogation buoy three days
back in space. If he could rendez-
vous with it, his gambit would suc-
ceed. Every space buoy had All-
System communications on board as
well as emergency air, food and wa-
ter. It was regulation, a foresight
seldom found in systems designed
by planet grounders for men who
lived and died in space.

He peeked again at his timex. In
two and a half hours, the dayside
lights would warm up and the sleep-
ing men would emerge from their

AND EARTH SO FAR AWAY

13

nighttime cocoons and discover his
absence. They would, some of
(hem, curse him for desertion.
Perhaps Hennings, (he Moonie rock
hunter would know what was hap-
pening. Maybe Pardee, a space wise
mechanic from Oklahoma, would
catch on.

The others would rely on planet
based rescue even though Earth and
Mars were so far distant. They
would keep believing it for a month
or more until they expired one by
one from despair or from a pill or
from asphyxiation.

Even a three hundred foot spar-
kling white tank could disappear amid
the rocks.

When he had drifted about and
was far enough away, Avo fired the
hydrogen jets and the clumsy
bubble-headed cylinder sped off into
dark space. Three days would tell if
he was a deserter or a medal win-
ner. If he survived and they died,
he would never again get a post on
a corporate miner, never again be
welcome on any NATO craft.

In moments of extreme life
threatening situations a spacer was
supposed to save his ass. That was
law and ethic. He wouldn't be
faulted if he survived the blow-out
and disintegration while the others
perished: one man, one life boat.
However, he wouldn’t exactly be
honored, and would never get into
space again on any Constitution
craft.

“If the spacers pick me up and
not the crew,” he thought, ‘Til

14

have to go rebel now unless I stay
on Mars. I wouldn't exactly have
much to do down there. Claim a
disability or something.” His mind
was computing relative values. “I’d
have to go rebel, if they’d take me
on. The renegade Russians would
hire me — that’s for sure. A
navigator with my trip record would
get top credits.” He liked Ruskies
in space. Good chessmen, no com-
plainers.

Yet Avo was tangled in the webs
of his own history. He was a
moonbom child of five when his
parents left Moonport Tycho on the
first colony ships to Mars. His
great-grandfather was a Moon ex-
ploration geologist. His grandfather
an astrophysicist in the first moon
colony, his grandmother a moon
botanist. The webs of the past
bound him to a certain sense of
place in the vast regions of dark
space and planet expansion. First
Moon colony, moonbom. Mars col-
ony child, a space navigator from
earliest manhood; at twenty-two a
spacehand on the first ice expedition
to the Rings of Saturn when spacer
Martians had proved that ice in
ocean quantity was transportable,
useable. That event had dissolved
the Earth umbilical cord forever. If
he failed to bring the miner crew
home to Mars, he would end his
life planet-bound or a navigator for
privateers.

GALAXY

Avo tinned the video back toward
the housetank and watched it
sparkle away on the monitor. “No
way,” he said, “no way they’re
gonna find that tank until maybe
next year.” The news of the blow-
out was no doubt a hot bit of ex-
citement in the Corporate headquar-
ters on Marsport and personal con-
cern, grief and worry in Crater. He
knew the NATO rescue teams were
scanning the rocks, but from a very
great distance. The blowout of a bil-
lion-dollar space machine would be
evening news for a few days on
Moon and Earth. Consulates would
exchange data, crew lists, cargo po-
tential. The loss of unknown tons of
chromium would sicken the
stomachs of the corporate directors.
Inquiries would have already been
through preliminary statements.
Theories as to the nature of the dis-
aster would bound via microwave
from Mars to Moon to Earth and
back. But as yet very little would
be happening in a rescue effort. Not
yet. They were all so far away.

But the astrogation buoy was
right ahead, somewhere in the
rocks. He asked for the coordinates
from the astrogator and opened the
All-System guide communicator
bands for a pulse. “The trouble
with mini-tugs is that they are de-
signed for close platform support.
The microwave units are limited.
Receivers too small and too direc-
tional.” Avo made a note to report
all that to the investigators. If he
ever got to talk to them.

The mini -tugs could sustain a
man for five days. The space buoy
would keep him another week,
perhaps two. It was up to the inde-
pendent spacers if he lived or not.
Up to the renegade Russians and
their privateer American financers.
This region of the rocks was rich in
chromium. There was sure to be a
pirate floating around somewhere,
sure to be a wildcat mine working a
cluster of rocks somewhere. They
all tuned in to the buoys set out and
maintained by the Constitution.

Everyone had the right to
navigate — astrogate they were call-
ing it now. Everyone had the right
to survive in space. He would gen-
erate all the rescue teams he would
need. If only he could find them,
and they could reach him.

Avo set the pulse generator se-
quence for the propulsion robot, ex-
tended the antennae mast and
locked his guidance coordinates into
the pilot. He knew he would find
the buoy, day after tomorrow. He
climbed out of the bubble-domed
circular cockpit and went below into
the tiny mini-tug housetank. He
touched the illumination panel, read
a soft vapor light, and then
stretched out the sleepnet.

He would sleep in his airsuit,
keeping the helmet an arm’s reach
away; too many mini-tugs took sud-
den punctures and decompressions
for the luxury of naked sleep.

He zipped into the sleepnet and
floated back, letting himself relax in
space fashion, slow pranic breath-

AND EARTH SO FAR AWAV

15

ing dispelling tensions throughout
his body, relaxing feet first, work-
ing upward giving advice to his
muscles to stop doing what they
were doing to cause tension; knees,
genitals, abdomen, thorax, neck,
back. He was soon in near-sleep.
His body would be grateful for a
good sleep.

His mind, however, was still a
turmoil over his decision to leave
the others behind. He had ap-
proached it in singular Martian -way
logic. He was (he only one capable
of piloting a clumsy mini-tug
through days of space and locating
an astrogation buoy fifty feet long
amid a mass of asteroid rocks. He
was at that time senior officer, and
pro-tem captain. The decision was
correct. He hadn't needed the kind
of group approval so common with
Earthmen.

He imagined the disabled house-
tank and knew the men were awake
now, cursing him no doubt, squeez-
ing the fear back down inside them,
perhaps understanding what he had
done.

Near- sleep began to quiet him.
He saw the positive pole of his plan
and locked onto it. He would save
the crew. He would take rest from
space and lay down on Mars
awhile. Maybe he would go to
Earth and read history for a few
years. History was his personal joy.
The long years in space had given
him ample time to read the micro-
film libes from a to z. But books!
Real books in the library of a

university or a corporation, even a
city! That was a dream he'd had
since his days amid the Rings chop-
ping ice.

After the rescue and the inquiry
on Mars, he'd visa down to Earth
for a time. He was rich enough in
credits. Spacers had strange rumors
of Earth. They said it was a filthy
place and you could get any number
of unmentionable diseases there,
some of which turned your lungs
black, some of which rotted your
skin or made your hair fall out.

Avo had never been to Earth.
He’d left Moon at five and barely
remembered the blue-white marble
in the sky. He’d heard that the air
on Earth was so thick you could
drown in it, so thick you couldn't
see through it and that water fell out
of the sky, sometimes for days on
end. He couldn’t really believe that
last part. But he’d never seen an
ocean nor a jungle nor a river in his
life. There was more to the System
than space.

After the rescue, he’d go down to
Earth. He’d visit Pardee in Ok-
lahoma and ride horses. He’d read
history books until his eyes fell out.

He knew Martians were rare on
Earth. Six billion Earihpeople and
only 152,000 total Martians, less
than 1,000 down on Earth. Pardee
had told him that getting used to
Earthgrav was just a matter of
working at it . . . he’d have to take

16

GALAXY

calcium to strengthen the bones,
and run everyday.

“Just a hundred yards for the
first week,” Pardee had told him,
"two hundred the second week,
then four hundred on up. By the
end of six weeks you do a mile a
day, hell’s bells! Most Earth people
don’t do that! Then you work out
with weights for six months espe-
cially on the legs, you got it made.
You come on down OkTahoma and
my Pa an’ me ’ll work your ass off
on our ranch. We got a herd of
horses and cattle and there's hay to
buck and barley to cut. Sheet. You
just show up on Earth and call me.
You got yereelf a home!” Now
Pardee was trapped in a frosted
steel housetank with six NATO’s
and two Moonies and one other
Merican; the rolling hay fields so
far away.

Maybe, when he was down to
Earth, Avo dreamed, he’d find a
few Earthgirls to bring up to Mars.
They had them down there all sizes,
shapes and colors!

He knew of a crater about one
hundred kilos from Vandis, the
Nova Mars colony, just south of the
farthest reaches of the north polar
cap, where the shadows sheltered a
great bank of ice. The crater was
maybe six kilos across, with one
wall crumbled and a flat central
basin filled with good glass sand. In
the summer, when the pole tilted
down toward the sun, enough ice
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AND EARTH SO FAR AWAY

17

red and purple carpet six to ten cen-
timeters deep.

He could go independent, neither
rebel nor Constitution, set up a few
domes with his Eanhwives and live
on his pension credits reading his-
tory. His wives could set up a glass
factory and they'd make their own
planthouses and their own plates
and cups. The icefield would give
them water, energy in reduction to
hydrogen and with the oxygen they
could make their own air.

That was the Martian way, the
dream of traditional Martian
spacers. His mind reached sleep. He
fell into dreaming planet dreams of
plump, smiling longhaired girls of
Earth.

Avo slept all through the second
day. There was no need for him to
awaken. The robopilot kept the craft
at speed and locked onto the course
he had set for it. Sleep healed him
and rested his mind. On the third
day he awakened and stretched out
of the sleepnet. He floated into the
cockpit and checked his data
monitors. A huge smile spread
across his face. He had the buoy
signal strong and unmistakable!

He computed twelve hours of
travel time before he would have to
maneuver and lock into the thing.
Matching speed would be tricky;
twenty-three years of space craft
and he was topping his career off
with a mini -tug and buoy.

If the mini -tugs had better com-
munications gear, he might have
been able to raise someone by now.
18

Twice in the past he had been in on
rescues; once an indy wildcatter
with plumbing problems causing a
shutdown of their fuel rods; once a
pirate Ruskie shot through with
meteor holes. It hadn’t mattered that
they weren't Constitution.

Avo began to brake at the
seventh hour, at the tenth he made
eye contact with the blinking red
strobe light, at the twelfth he began
to match speed and rendezvous.

When he was simultaneous with
the buoy, he fastened his airhelmet,
locked the housetank hatch and
pumped out to vacuum. He popped
the bubble dome and floated out to
space. He was about one hundred
meters below the buoy; he’d placed
the tug there to avoid the piercing
long distance microwave beams. He
tethered to the tug and pushed off,
floating to the buoy, catching on to
a ring hold. He had made it half-
way.

Now he could send out the data
on the blowout, the coordinates of
the housetank, the names of the
survivors. He was sorry he couldn’t
include Tassmor on (he list. He
found the service hatch and popped
it. The interior was alive with pin-
lights and electric humming.

The rescue effort took three
weeks. Avo waited on the buoy for
eight days before an indy prospector
homed in and took him off. The
indy ship wasn’t big enough to hold
the other crewmen, and was headed
Mars-side anyway. Avo regretted
that he wouldn't be going back to

GALAXY

the floating housetank to spring his
partners.

A roving rebel-colony mining
platform crossed four and a hall
million kilometers to take the men
on board. It was four months before
they were able to transfer to a
NATO patrol ship and ferry down
to Mars .

A vo was waiting for them when
they touched down. He had long
since made his report and testified
at the preliminary inquiry. Now that
the others were down, he would
have to do it again. The thin clear
winds of Mars blew red dust devils
across the landing strip. The shuttle
came down gracefully, its great
moveable wings spread wide,
thrusters flaring in sequence. The
touchdown was perfeet.

A vo waited until the craft taxied
into the cargo hanger, then went
across the tarmac and slipped his
titanium credit plaque into the
robosecurity gate. He found a good
vantage point behind the video
crews, his slender 6 '5" tucked near
a service van. The outer hatches
were popped and the men came
down the portaramp. The video
newsmen immediately pounced on
the surprise news . . . only eight of
the ten returned! The two Moonies
had jumped contracts and signed on
with the rebel platform crew that
had rescued them!

The NATO patrol commander

had classified the story in coded
messages to Earth, but had not
broadcast the change in status over
the common communicators. Hen-
nings and Dasco had forfeited their
lunar citizenship, forfeited their
bank credits and gone rebel! Avo
felt a racing wave of excitement
break over him. The new colony
was eager for accomplished spacers
to man their mining craft. The
Moonies were naturals for recruit-
ment, young men with no wives or
kids and not enough in the bank,
even to metal wise moonies, to keep
them from taking the leap.

The rebel mining effort had
gained immeasurably from this dis-
aster. A rich source of chromium
was now coordinated, their own
platform was now mining the sec-
tor, and they had gained two free-
space demolition experts with im-
mediate experience and corporate
engineering degrees. Avo was more
than just interested in the new col-
ony, he was overwhelmed by its re-
sourcefulness and spirit. He would
get the whole story from the Meri-
cans, Pardee and Rander. He saw
Pardee’s bright blue eyes flashing
and his happy face crack open in a
smile.

The video crews made a big deal
of the touchdown. The news would
speed to Earth and Moon without
delay. The reunion of the latest
space blowout survivors with the
Martian who had maneuvered a
mini- tug through three days of
space, pinpointed their location and

AND EARTH SO FAR AWAY

19

effected their rescue! It was coo
much for grounder imaginations,
even Martian grounders. The story
would illuminate two billion video
screens and fill pages of newsprint.

It would also be stored in micro-
libes, occupy the gossip of Corpo-
rate boardrooms and design labs,
worey consulates and governors.
The rescue had been carried out by
rebels. Two otherwise reliable, skil-
led .space hands had jumped con-
tract. The implications were too
complicated for instant analysis.

A vo, Rander, and Pardee rode in
comfort back to Marsport, sitting
inside a corporate executive touring
car. The vast cluster of ferro-glass
domes danced in the pink haze
across the crater floor. The Corpora-
tion was putting them up at the
Dunes Hotel and the attorneys and
investigators were eager to get more
of the details of the disaster. Avo
had told his version over and over,
but he was a Martian, given to little
speculation and not much talk. The
investigators would have a ball with
the hard talking Mericans.

The NATO crew members went
to NATO village as everyone had
expected, the NATO's being a tight
security group, tighter than even the
Russians down in Vostokgrad. The
video crew loved the six smiling
NATO’s with their handsome faces
and symmetrical, well muscled
bodies, and especially the photos
they showed in the plastic frames of
children and grandfathers, wives
and cousins down on Earth. There

weren’t a lot of single Martian girls
in this business and bureaucracy
town, but most of them went out to
NATO village that weekend. Over
one hundred hands aboard the patrol
ship came down for a week on the
ground.

The cool faint sun was sinking
pale red in the evening pink salmon
sky. “Sheet,” said Pardee. “Me’n
Rander would of jumped, too. Ex-
cept we already got Mars visas. I
couldn’t see losing the credits in my
accounts, but let me tell you I give
it a long, long thought.”

The three men sat in the garden
bar on the fourth terrace of the
Hotel. It was one of the tallest
buildings under the dome and they
had a good view of the corporation
garden district from the windows. It
didn’t take them long to tie one on.
Pardee and Rander hadn’t had a
drink in almost a year. Avo was
smoking black lichen and drinking
expensive tequila imported from
Mexico. "You know we thought
about it,” Rander added. “We
gotta keep it under our helmets, ya
know? We don’t know what’s
gonna fold over at the inquest. Cor-
poration is pissed at the blowout.”

“Yeah, it's a variable at this
point,” said Pardee. “The Corpora-
tion doesn't exactly know what’s
floating, see? Those NATO’s have
been strictly segregated. They
couldn't do that with us ’cuz we’re
Mericans, but we were on board the
rebel platform for four months be-
fore the patroller took us on. Let

20

GALAXY

me tell you those rebels got some-
thing together as far as space min-
ing goes. The hands get a share of
the tonnage swept up, and a share
of the smelt. Besides that, they got
some balls out there, Avo my
friend, real balls. We seen ’em de-
tonate a chunk of rock twice as big
as we would have dared tackle and
swept up every crumb of it.”

“We was goin’ to work for our
keep while we was on board," said
Rander, "but they advised us of
their political situation real friendly
and accurate. We had a briefing on
video from one of their attorneys,
told us the whole shot. He advised
that we didn’t work and the captain
up there tol’ us don't even bother
worryin’ about it. They wasn't
about to attach any of our credits
even! 'But the NATO’s they didn’t

trust nohow! Wouldn’t let them see
any of their operations.”

The smoke from the heady black
lichen coupled with two shots of
tequila had Avo spinning. He felt a
sense he hadn’t known since that
first fantastic trip out to the Rings
with the expeditionary flight. That
had been a revolution in space
travel. The Earthbound, scientist
control of Mars had been shattered.
Something like that was happening
again. More subtle perhaps, but a
new energy was coming through.
And it was coming from the break-
away Vandis colony.

The following morning, Avo was
dreaming. He was floating through
the icy tank miles long, diffused

AND EARTH SO FAR AWAY

21

with blue light. The dead face of
Tassmor ghosted through the ice
walls. He could see blood from the
Earth man's crushed lungs frozen at
the comer of his smiling mouth.

He awakened and saw the morning
light at the window, felt the bed
beneath him, looked at the plants
hanging by the windows. He sud-
denly felt very old and creaky in the
joints, not at all like a spacer celeb-
rity, the subject of news reports and
target of eager well-wishers.

The Hotel bar had been packed
with handshaking businessmen and
grounder bureaucrats. A dozen
times he and Pardee had their in-
stamatic photos snapped. At first
he’d enjoyed the drinks offered and
the pipes of black lichen. He’d
never in his life had so much atten-
tion and he was too much a spacer
to really enjoy it, always in space
with only a small dome lodge down
in Sandy ville near Crater to call a
pianethome.

Pardee soaked up the spotlight
and took some of the heat off Avo
with half a dozen rare tales of the
months on the rebel platform, his
ranch in Oklahoma and the delicacy
known as mountain oysters. Rander
caught the eye of a supple young
lady on leave from the equatorial
weather station. They cut out before
midnight. Avo and Pardee got too
drunk to handle any women, al-
though there were several rare
beauties in the bar. Avo was think-
ing of women more and more often
now.

The morning light spread into the
room. He had never spent a night in
such luxury. The bed was wide and
deep with soft sheets and fat pil-
lows. It was a- giant room with tall
windows and a balcony. “Exec’s
life is soft,” he murmured. “No
wonder they all look so polished,
buffed over by centuries between
soft sheets is why.”

He stretched. The Marsgrav tug-
ged at him a little and pulled him
down. He had to get used to things
falling. He was still sticking things
out in the air like a glass or a pen
and being startled when it fell to the
floor. Even with six months down,
he was still in weightless space. Six
months was the longest he’d stayed
down in twelve years. He was feel-
ing thick in the head from the
tequila and very old. It was time to
make new plans, somehow, but he
couldn’t think what. Avo reached
for a ginseng-vitamin pill to cure
his aching hangover and lay back to
sleep until noon.

The videophone was calling him.
Avo awakened again and snapped
on the monitor. It was Pardee. “Get
yer ass outa bed, spaceman, and
come on down to the sauna. 1 got
some news for you.”

"What news?” Avo murmured.
“I’m not getting up.”

“Cain’t tell ya on this system.
Meet me down in the sauna. Come
on now, it’s important.”

Avo hadn't been figuring to leave
his room until hunger drove him
out. But the invitation to the sauna

22

GALAXY

sounded good and the added spice
of some Earthman intrigue was too
much motivation to resist. He stood
up and found a clean jumpsuit,
slipped on his desert boots and went
out to the elevator.

The sauna and exercise spa was
on the ground floor across the
eucalyptus garden from the pool.
There were only three pools in all
of Marsport and on weekends this
was a popular social spot. Avo had
figured to hang out there on Sunday
to entertain some single young
ladies. He crossed through the
lobby and out into the fragrant gar-
den. Eucalyptus grew well in Mar-
tian soil.

Pardee was waiting for him in a
private box. Avo showered first
and, wrapped in a thick velour to-
wel, stepped into the 180° heat.
Pardee sat naked on the beach hold-
ing his head.

“That lichen I smoked kicked my
head from here to Enceladus. Sit
down, bro,’ you ready for some
tales?” Avo really wasn’t. The poli-
tics and leverage games that went
on between the three inhabited
worlds had never really interested
him. Pardee took a deep breath. “I
had to meet you here because 1
don't trust the hotel phone system.
Rander split this morning with that
meteorologist! Yesterday afternoon,
as soon as we checked in here, he
slipped out to a bank and got his
credits transferred Mars-side. Like I
tol’ you we both already got Mars
visas. This morning, the transfer

comes through, he draws it all out
and him and the girl take off! To
Vandis!”

Avo’s head was clearing fast.
The only place to take off to on this
planet was to the new colony.

“He’s gone over to Vandis?
What about the inquest?” He re-
alized it was a dumb question. Ran-
der had other things on his mind.
“There ain’t gonna be no inquest.
Least not here. I had an Earth man
CB1 team in my room (his morning
trying to find out if I was going to
run. too. I had to claim rights to get
them out. The Corporation is get-
ting set to file sabotage charges.”

“Against who?” Avo said quick-

ly-

“ Ain’t sure yet. The NATO’s
have ordered their crew back to
Moon. They refuse to meet inter-
viewers. It might be a showdown
between the Corporates and the
NATO’s.”

“They always stick together,”
Avo calculated. “They’re gonna try
to bake the NMC at Vandis and
blame them. Then they get the em-
bargoes enforced, see?”

“Could be. I can't tell, being
basically dumb at politicos. But
somethin’s goin’ down and i wanted
you in on what I know.”

“The CBI can’t question me
without a civil justice warrant and
they can't get that. Martian spacer
rights are tough to violate. But I
still ought to get an attorney just in
case any charges come down —
neglect of duty or something. The

AND EARTH SO FAR AWAY

23

truth is I don't know what caused
the preliminary explosion. All 1
could tell them was about the stages
of the breakup afterwards. And
Tassmor’s death.”

"Hennings made a report about
that to the NMC manager. So
you’re covered good on that one.
He will make that report available if
you request it.”

"Since I’ve been down here sev-
eral months, there’s probably no
worry about me going over. I’m
first colony anyway. My Martian
rights citizenship would make it im-
possible for CBI to extradite me for
anything. Trouble is I was seriously
considering a trip Earth side.”

“You were?” Pardee was beam-
ing. “Listen, you got to come visit
my folks and all.”

“I was figuring I would. I want
to see what Earth is all about for
myself. There’s damn few Martians
ever been to Earth. I thought I’d lay
out down there a few years. Read
history, find a wife or two.”

“Find some women?” Pardee
laughed. “Why, Bro,‘ do you have
any idea how many thousands of
Earth girls would many you just to
get up to Mars?”

“Thousands?” Avo wasn’t going
for the number.

“Thou sands ! ’ ’ Pardee repeated.
“It’s the mystique. Spacers are rare
birds. I can’t tell you the fascination
most Earthpeople have for spacers.
Even a platform mechanic like me.

“1 wanted to be in space since 1
was six years old. I been expecting
24

to go Martian these past few annu-
als, bring my wife and kids up
here. Hey, the best astrogation and
priori ng schools are on Mars these
days- Mars is the future world, far
as space goes.”

“You come on down to San-
dy ville with me,” said Avo. “If
there’s no inquest, there’s no need
to hang around here. Down there I
can show you some real Mars. I got
my lodge down there and we can
trip out to the desert. Mars is a
place just beginning. Let’s enjoy the
Corporation’s hospitality today. I
want to get in that pool this af-
ternoon. Tomonow morning we’ll
catch the shuttle down to Crater.”

Sandy ville was a spacer enclave
tucked into a low escarpment due
west of Crater. Avo and Pardee
boarded the first shuttle in the
morning, making the four hundred
kilometers flight to Mars’ second
city in half an hour.

Crater was more populated than
Marspon, being a center of spacer
activity and independent mine or-
ganizations. The crater it sat in was
fifty kilos across and die rim wall,
banded pink and red, curved around
in a jagged ridge that varied from
two thousand to more than nine
thousand meters. All manner of
trade goods changed hands at Cra-
ter: air packs, dome kits, assorted
vehicles, mining equipment, spare
pans for a thousand and one

GALAXY

machines, vegetables from outlying
glassfarms. fertilizers, seed, farm
implements, glassware, clothing,
sand boots, imports from Moon and
Earth, carved ruby, Martian metals,
black lichen, contraband of every
description; families, children,
beautiful slender girls, myths,
legends of the colonists, well kept
saloons and wild, wild stories of
space, asteroids and the dunes of
Mars.

■‘The story about the man, Van-
dis,” Avo told Pardee as they sat
shoulder to shoulder in the tight
seats of the shuttle, “is the story of
the original independent exploration
of the planet. Vandis broke away
from the clutches of the scientists
almost a century before the Rings
Expedition. Everyone thought he
was dead for ten years after he dis-
appeared from the First Geological
Survey. Marsport was the only base
then. Totally military- scientist con-
trolled. Vandis believed Mars
would support a colony and pre-
dicted that humans would live here,
prosper and break away from
Earth-scientist domination. He
explored the entire circumference of
the north polar cap and built his
own water and air makers."

"So, that’s why they call the
NMC colony Vandis," said Pardee.

"Exactly," Avo continued. "Van-
dis became expert in dry land
ecology in the days of his explora-
tions. Most of the mystery legends
come from him and his first follow-
ers.”

AND EARTH SO FAR AWAY

“Like the Lost Martians, the
dead city on the equator, the dune
creatures and all that?” Pardee was
as wide-eyed as a space child of
six.

"Right, Vandis came back to
Marsport ten years after he had
been declared dead. The military
tried to assassinate him. He scared
(hem to death! He came in at
Marsport one morning on the tail
end of a sandstorm. Everybody
thought he was some kind of true
Martian creature. In a sense he was;
the first Earth man to live on Mars.
On Mars alone without Earth-
supplied existence. He did what was
said to be impossible.

"Instead of welcoming the man
back as a visionary and a hero, they
jailed him! He was a terrible threat
to the safe little scientist base. They
didn’t want anyone coming to Mars
except their own people under strict
supervision. Two of the younger
members of the enclave, an as-
tronaut captain and a young female
geologist, sprang Vandis out of the
jail that the base commander had
constructed just for him. They dis-
appeared and walked away into the
desert. The commander went out
after them, but never found a trace.
So for the second time, this one
classified for twenty- five years,
Vandis was declared dead!

“The three explorers knew they
would be discovered if they stayed
near the polar cap so they turned
south and set up several bases.
After a year, several more people

25

from the enclave disappeared, along
with various pieces of equipment.
“Gone to Vandis” was the term
that grew up to explain it. And
every year after that, top flight
people would desert. Soon there
was no denying that Vandis was
alive with his followers, somewhere
on Mars.”

Pardee was watching the ragged
dunes and red walled craters flow
past below the round window next
to his elbow. The Vandis legend
was a myth of his childhood but
here he was flying over the very
territory that the first Martian
ecologist had surveyed.

“The greatest Vandis tale, to me
anyway, is the Ruby Caverns,”
Avo added.

“Somewhere down in the equator
belt is a system of lost caverns. The
Martians had used the caverns as a
storage bin for (he last traces of
their society. The legend says that
Vandis is still alive and down there
with them. It could be, you know,
(he equator has been extensively
mapped and photographed, but ac-
tually explored very little. The
sandstorms are incredible, water
factor just about zero. But there is
no doubt there is just as much ruby
there as anywhere else. Whole
mountain ranges of ruby.”

Ruby was the first big discovery
on Mars, one kept secret for de-
cades from fear of its economic im-
pact on Earth. For 150 annuals the
scientists who controlled Mars
maintained a rich monopoly in a

ruby trade. Mars ruby was highly
adaptable for industrial use in ail
manner of lasting devices. It was so
common on Mars that entire cliffs
and miles of encrusted ridges were
composed of the hard red carborun-
dum. A lively legal trade in carved
rubies for jewelry had gone on since
the days of the first colony. Martian
craftspeople turned out plates, cups,
goblets, paperweights, necklaces,
sculptures, all manner of artifacts
for sale on the three worlds. The
money managers of Earth had strict
tariffs on all kinds of Martian
goods. Especially carved ruby. But
Earth people were so rich now that
practically every household had
some Martian ruby product in it, as
well as Martian glassware. The
sands of Mars were especially
suited to glass making.

Avo’s lodge was little used and
poorly tended, not much different
from dozens of spacer lodges spot-
ted around the Sandyville enclave,
just a thirty- foot house dome within
a ninety-foot glass air dome. But it
was his.

Avo had yet to take wives, not
uncommon among veteran spacers,
who usually settled in to a planet-
home around forty- five or so. Avo
had known a beautiful Martian
girl as a lover when he was on the
Ring convoys, but she had died at
an outpost weather station during a

26

GALAXY

ferocious sandstorm, so many years
ago.

Pardee was an immediate success
in the enclave’s social life. Real
Earthmen were uncommon outside
Marsport. His tales of hay fields
and horses astounded the veterans
and children alike. His thick frame
and multiple tatoos fascinated the
Martian women. It was clear that he
could easily add as many more to
his family as his Earth wife would
accept.

After five days of dune trekking
he declared, “I'm going home for
one last time, Avo. Pack up my
family and go Martian. I knew I’d
be doin' it someday. Since I was in
astro-engineering school. My wife
knows it, too. We can make it up
here.”

Avo nodded. “You can go inde-
pendent here. I know a crater up
north that’s half filled with ice. I
can build a lodge there and an air
maker, put up planthouses. I can,
we can, get an independent mine
contract, finance a platform . . .
you can set up planethome
here.”

“1 can see it all,” said Pardee.
“It could really work out. We can
get finance down in Oklahoma and
Texas in a hot second; that way we
can open an Earth-Moon trade line.
Long as we don’t sell out com-
pletely, it will be our own trip to
manage.”

“No corporation bosses to tell us
what to mine or where to mine,”
Avo replied. “Only a tenth of the

asteroid belt has been prospected.
We can trade where we want. Van-
dts or Crater or Moon. Just one
year out. maybe two, and we’d pay
off any investors real handsome.”
“It’s done!” Pardee leaped up
and looked out over the shifting
miles of low dunes. “I’ll get us
some investors that’ll make your
head spin.”

Avo returned to Marsport with
Pardee on the weekend shuttle. Par-
dee had enough pull to get a book-
ing to Moon on the first ore freight-
er. From Moon there was an every-
day transit down to Earth. “Don’t
let your ass rust away up here,
now,” Pardee pointed a finger
right at Avo. “You come on down
to Earth as soon as you can book
transit. We’re gonna do some busi-
ness, partner.”

“I’ll be down in maybe four
months, five months. What I can do
up here is find us a platform to rig
out. Lots of the wildcatters are old
now, need first class refitting. I can
contract one from Crater, no sweat.
Then we’ll have to lease a transpor-
ter . . Plans and ideas filled his
mind. The prospect of starting new
thrilled him with the same kind of
excitement he had felt so long ago
when he was standing on a five-
mile long chunk of ice floating
through the Rings above the mon-
strous orb of Satum.

The black shuttle screamed off

AND EARTH SO FAR AWAY

27

the runway carrying Avo’s new
partner away into space and to his
rendezvous with the ore freighter
which would cany him home.

“Home is a place where, when
you have to go there, they have to
take you in,” Avo said, recounting
the lines of an old Earth poet.
“When I get down to Earth,” he
thought, “I’ve got a place now; Ok-
lahoma, wherever that is.” He
made a note to check an Earth Atlas
in the Corporation library back at
Mars port.

His return to the capital was less
conspicuous this time. He caught
the public van and rode in silence
toward the shimmering cluster of
domes. He had an interview that af-
ternoon with the Chief of Mining
Operations during which he had de-
cided to make his resignation.

The Corporation’s SpaceMining
complex was a marvel in architec-
ture with its own security dome set
under the city’s massive community
air dome. A small forest of conifers
and mountain Earth shrubbery were
landscaped into Martian boulders
and massive ruby conglomerates.
The buildings were soft pinkstone
and stainless steel with blue Martian
marble floors. Water, the ultimate
luxury on this dry, dusty planet,
spurted from a dozen fountains. He
walked across the inner courtyard
set with cool green grass and took
the escalator to the CMO suite. His
welcome seemed cool and somehow
overly correct.

The chief was an Earth man cn-

28

gineer. A grounder with limited
space experience, he was a deft
administrator and organizer. Avo
didn’t get a chance to resign.
“What’s been decided, Earthside,
Avo, is to accelerate your pension
date and give you a much needed
rest. I want you to know it was not
my decision, nothing unilateral
about it. You know, with things in
such a state of unrest, as far as
Vandis and these renegade Russians
down south, Earthside is overly
concerned about security of the plat-
forms. It’s not your own personal
loyalty, just a lack of understand-
ing. What they don’t want is a
whole platform going over to Van-
dis, leaving the Constitution juris-
diction and precipitating legal ac-
tion.

Incidentally, I am empowered
to give you this meritorious credit
certificate for your part in the res-
cue, which was entirely your show
from my point of view. And fi-
nally,” the Chief stood up from be-
hind his desk and handed Avo a
slender black box. “Go ahead,” the
Chief beamed. “Open it.” Avo
snapped open the lid and stared at a
gold digital wrist watch. “Last you
a lifetime,” the Chief claimed.
“I’ve got one just like it. It’s just a
token, Avo. Just a token. It gives
Earthtime, Moontime and Marstime!
Now if there’s anything I can do
personally to aid your transi-
tion . . . any references or such,
don’t hesitate to write.”

Avo stood up quietly. “Well, I

GALAXY

was hoping perhaps I could use the
library here when I’m under the
dome. For awhile anyhow.”

“Certainly,” said the Chief. “I’ll
have the security section issue you a
pass. We have the best microlibe on
Mars, you know.” Avo shook
hands with the Chief. They both
smiled and neither said anything.”

A month later, he was watching
the stars pop up, clear and frosty,
over the rim of his crater. The great
bank of snow and ice that partially
filled the high northwest wall glis-
tened in the shadow. He thought of
the ice that had condensed around
the floating housetank after the
blowout, now a year gone by.

He snapped open the face mask
of his airpack and took a puff on a
pipe stuffed with black lichen, then
lay back on the red sand. Earth and
Venus were bright against the
blue-black sky. Venus was so much
the brighter, so stark white and bril-
liant she seemed much closer than
Earth, which was twinkling blue
and green.

He imagined himself in a library
somewhere down there in a city
next to the sea. He imagined
plump, longhaired Earthgirls swim-
ming naked in the waves. He blew
out the lichen smoke and flapped
the face mask back in place. Earth
glittered in the evening sky. He
wondered if he was looking at Ok-
lahoma. ★

AND EARTH SO FAR AWAY

SPECIAL FEATURE

Postscript to GATEWAY

W hen i submitted the manu-
script of Gateway to Jim Baen for
Galaxy, I warned him fair and
square, I did. I said there were
some problems. I told him that, not
only was it pretty complex to be
broken into serial installments, and
typographically a nightmare besides,
but I was still tinkering with it. And
so 1 was. I rewrote it completely
after that first draft, particularly the
ending. I don’t know how many
times I revised that. What 1 do
know is that after I was completely
through with it (or thought I was)
and had turned in a complete manu-
script, 1 then had second thoughts
and decided to omit the very last
(and very short) chapter.

Now that (he book is in print,
comments and reviews have been
coming in. I must say they have
been extremely kind, by and large,
but more than one of them has
commented that the ending takes
some getting used to. And now Jim
has asked me to let him publish that
omitted last chapter, and along with

it to try to explain what was going
on in my head.

1 am going to try to do this. But
because I embarrass easily, let me
say something first. Producing a
book is a lot like producing a baby.
Everybody knows what has been
going on, but it does seem very
delicate to talk about it explicitly in
public. So bear with me, please,
dear friends, while 1 try to do this
public flashing as gracefully as I
can.

Besides being a novel. Gateway
is an attempt to try to do something
I have wanted to do for a long time:
to say everything I knew, about a
world I had made up.

All science fiction writers invent
the worlds their characters move in,
of course, and in the course of
doing so most of us figure out more
about them than we ever put on pa-
per. If you ask Larry Niven about
the kzinti, he can tell you details of
their dreams and their breeding
habits that have never been pub-
lished. So can Gordon Dickson

30

GALAXY

about the Dorsai. So can I about
most of the characters and settings
I’ve used.

The reason that not all of this
backgrounding gets into print is not
because the authors want to keep
secrets from the rest of the world,
but because explaining too much
slows down the action. Science
fiction readers already accept much
greater demands on their imagina-
tion and intelligence than the read-
ers of most fiction will sit still for.
But there is a limit to even their pa-
tience. Past a certain point, they
don’t want to hear any more talk
about why a thing is, they want to
get on with it.

Contrariwise, one of the Great
Good Things about science fiction
is just that it does build these in-
teresting and colorful new worlds
for us to roam around in in our im-
aginations. I imagine most of us
have fantasied from time to time
about living on Barsoom or Os-
nome, or in any world that some
writer has given us a passport to.

The experiment I wanted to try
was to make that whole world as
complete as I could. To say about it
everything that I knew to say. Not
just enough to account for why the
characters behaved as they did. Not
just the physical parameters, The
habits, the clothing, the recreations,
(he constraints, the sensory inputs.
Much of that can be done in ordi-
nary narrative, and here Robert A.
Heinlein is probably the father of us
all. Some can’t, not even by Hein-

lein. And to get this in without re-
quiring the characters to tell each
other things endlessly I adopted the
device of ‘‘sidebars.’’ I do not
claim it for an invention; it is a
technique of journalism. But I do
not remember having seen it used in
just that way in any novel. John
Dos Passos had done something like
it in 19 J9, a long time ago, by
using newspaper reports, an innova-
tion picked up and carried a step
farther by John Brunner in Stand On
Zanzibar, i had experimented with
the concept, from a somewhat dif-
ferent tack (only to provide bio-
graphical detail about some of the
characters) in a not very successful
“mainstream” novel called Presi-
dential Year, which 1 wrote with
Cyril Kombluth in 1956.

For Gateway, it looked like the
device that would do what I wanted
done. So for a year or more after
the novel itself was essentially com-
plete I found myself composing
poems, classified ads, letters-to-
the-editor, mission reports and all
sorts of other data inputs to be in-
serted into the work. I travel a lot. I
almost always carry a portable
typewriter with me (it is my se-
curity typewriter, I am uneasy with-
out it), and so I wrote little bits and
pieces of sidebars in all sorts of
places: in the TWA lounge at
O’ Hare Airport, between sessions at
any number of college lecture dates
and sf cons, on trains, in a hotel
room in Toronto in the intervals on
a week-long commitment to CBC

POSTSCRIPT TO GATEWAY

31

Television in connection with the
Apollo-Soyuz hookup. . .every-
where. 1 have a very clear memory
of the expression on the face of the
maid as she came into my stateroom
on Cunard’s liner Adventurer,
somewhere between islands in the
Caribbean. 1 had laid out clumps
and sheaves of pages on every flat
surface in the room — beds, chairs,
floor — trying to piece together my
jigsaw puzzle. She wanted desper-
ately to make my bed. But I
couldn’t let her, because I was try-
ing to make a novel.

I don’t promise that this is the
best way to write a novel. (If any-
one ever finds out what the best
way is I wish he'd tell me.) But in
this case it had advantages. The
world does not look the same from
the deck of a ship, or from an all-
night diner across the highway from
a motel, as it does from my writing
office, on the top floor of an old
monster of a house in New Jersey. I
think some of those differences in
perspective must be reflected in the
sidebars.

At any rate, the time came when
somehow I had patched all the
pieces together and was into the
final revision on this rather demand-
ing chunk of my life. Then I dis-
covered that Gateway had taken its
future into its own hands. It wasn’t
a single consecutive story anymore.
It wasn’t even the two stories that
ran concurrently, the analysis ses-
sions threaded into the straight nar-
rative of Broadhead’s life. It looked

to me as though it were coming
close to turning out to what I had
wanted it to be: a world.

Well, all right. But how do you
end a world? A novel I usually can
figure out how to end. In fact, I
know a lot of ways. Usually there is
one that fits. The choice of the right
one depends on what is the main
thrust of your story. At one time I
had considered that the main thrust
of Gateway was the color and terror
of the black hole. (The working title
of the book, in fact, was then
Beyond the Blue Event Horizon.)
At another I had thought it was
the personal story of Robinette
Broadhead. At stilt another, as the
computer-psychoanalyst Sigfrid von
Shrink seemed more and more im-
portant, I thought maybe it was
even his stoiy. For each of these I
could see an ending; but all of them
were wrong for Gateway as it had
evolved.

Well, you already know (if
you’ve read the story that is) what
decision 1 finally made.

Is it right?

God knows. It’s the Tightest I
could make it. For better or worse,
that’s where I stand.

Nevertheless I think it rather as-
tute of the reviewers and others to
have noticed that there is something
unusual about the ending. And for
any readers who are interested
enough to have stayed with me this
long, here is the brief last chapter
that 1 removed from the novel
. . .just for fun.

32

GALAXY

SIDEBAR

Chapter XXXII

What is so rare as a day in
June? A beautifully written, enter-
taining book. Such a book is Fred
Pohl's Gateway, a fascinating sci-
ence fiction story and a highly
crafted look at the nature of a
man. . .Robinette
Broadhead, . . .Pohl paces the
novel masterfully, so that the reve-
lation of the action coincides with
Broadhead’ s personal revelation.
The only possible weakness of the
book lies in the speed at which the
final events take place. It is not un-
like waiting in tine for hours to see
a work of art, and then being whip-
ped past it without having an oppor-
tunity to study it. That moment is an
awesome one, something worth lin-
gering over. But the very real
necessities of the plot require
otherwise, and the story is really
about Broadhead, not that brief
moment of scientific wonder." —
Delap's F&SF Review.

. .a wonderfully original
analyst-and-patient couchhanger .
The analyst is a computer named
Sigfrid von Shrink , and the patient
is the ulcer-ridden, fabulously weal-
thy lone survivor of the most mon-
strous disaster in the history of the
Gateway ships. The sum total is a
sort of ragged, irresistible bravura
display, marred by a mispropor-
tioned ending but full of utterly
splendid invention. Major Pohl, and
ane of the season's more worth-
while events." — Kirkus Newsletter.

Under the bubble the late af-
ternoon sun was warm and gentle.
It was late, but I went right to the
club: shower, plunge, ten minutes
in the sauna; and when I came out I
was ready for my date with S. Ya. I
was more than ready. I was looking
forward to it. Not only for S. Ya.
herself, pretty, intelligent, kind as
she was. I wanted very much to
make love to her, but ( also wanted
to talk to her.

All that stuff Sigfrid was giving
me — was it his crazy electronic fan-
tasy? Or was it real? S. Ya. would
know, or at least know enough to
talk sensibly about the possibility of
laying machine emotions onto
machine intelligence.

Oh, I had not forgotten Klara!
She was still in my heart, as much
as ever — more than ever, because
underneath the pain and the guilt
were the tenderness and the love,
that I would have for always,
wherever real-Klara was.

I have all my parts hack again; I
am whole and as well as any living
thing is ever going to be. . .which,
I decide, is good enough for me. I
have even got something I want to
do! I owe Sigfrid a favor. He
healed me. . . .

Maybe, with a little help from S.
Ya. and the Grace of God and
Good Fortune, I can make at least a
start toward healing him. ★

[THE END]

POSTSCRIPT TO GATEWAY

33

fectly safe
hing to
about

Charles Sheffiel

A bit lower on the left. Bit
more. There, that’s it. Hold i. right
there.”

( held it as Waldo directed and he
drove in the last nail, then stepped
back. Perfect. We looked at the
sign and beamed at each other.

‘Buimeister & Carver — Legal
Advisors.’ The old firm, a long way
from Washington D.C., but back in
business again.

We went into the office and
closed the door. Not much space
inside — it cost ten credits a square
foot, unfurnished, for rentals in
Th arsis City. But we had one
respectable-sized office, and a much
less fancy office/utility room behind
it. We’d agreed to take turns man-
ning the front office until we built
up enough business to spread our-
selves a bit. As the first and only
lawyers on Mars, we were sure that
wouldn’t take long.

I went back to my desk in the
rear office — Waldo was taking the
first shift out front. Then I came
straight out again. Fifteen minutes
earlier there had been a jelly
doughnut on my table. I looked at
Waldo and began, “Waldo, did
you — ?”

What was the use? I gave up in
mid-sentence. In the twenty years
since we left law school I’d seen
Waldo swell from a youth of sylph-
like elegance to a first-order man-
mountain. The time he'd spent
(more accurately, done) on the
Venus terra-forming project had
thinned him, temporarily, but as

soon as he reached Mars he’d
started to swell again. I’d bullied,
insulted, cajoled, lectured and
warned Waldo. If he kept on eating
the way he did, one day he’d
explode. He listened contritely,
swore he’d diet at once, implored
me to keep sweet stuff out of his
reach and thanked me for trying to
help. Then as soon as my back was
turned — chomp.

As it turned out, we had been
over-optimistic about the number of
cases that would come our way.
True, we were the only lawyers for
forty million miles, and Mars did
have a population of several
thousand. But — no business. I main-
tain that where a barbarian would
pick up a rock or a tree root to set-
tle a dispute, a civilized man picks
up a videophone and seeks legal
counsel. Measured by that standard,
Mars was too busy scrabbling for
survival to qualify above the barba-
rian level. For the first three weeks
I had little to do but sit about,
watching Waldo occupy a steadily
increasing amount of the available
office space.

When our first client finally ar-
rived, Waldo was manning the front
desk and I was sitting in the back
office looking at a lunar travel
brochure. Waldo collected them. I
was reading a poetic description of
a valley of mud, dust and rock
when I heard the door of the outer
office.

“Are you Burmeister and
Carver?” asked an unfamiliar voice.

PERFECTLY SAFE, NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT

35

'We are. I am WaJdo Burmeis-
ler, at your service.”

"I'm Peter Pinion. I’ve got some-
thing extremely valuable here and
I’d like to leave it with you to lock
in your safe.”

Waldo’s visitor seemed to be
confusing us with a bank. We
didn’t have a safe, just a big cup-
board in the back room with a de-
fective lock. 1 sneaked a look
through a narrow crack in the ill-
fitting and badly made door be-
tween our inner and outer offices.
Our visitor was very tali and lanky,
with brown hair and a pair of inno-
cent and startlingly blue eyes. His
dress told me that he was a
ranger — probably a geologist, rov-
ing around outside the domed city
areas. Waldo had responded instinc-
tively to the words ‘extremely valu-
able’ and had Pinion already seated
in our one comfortable chair.

What would it be? Precious
metals, old artifacts, Martian
supcrfluids? I could almost hear the
cash registers ringing in Waldo’s
head.

"In our safe, Mr. Pinion? Of
course. Where is youY deposit?”

Waldo hadn’t missed a beat. Pin-
ton reached into his brown, bulky
jacket and produced a small phial,
about the size of a pill bottle, con-
taining a pale, oily-looking liquid.
Since Pinton couldn't see me t felt
free to register my disappointment.

Waldo looked at the bottle dubi-
ously. “What exactly is it, Mr. Pin-
ton?”

“It’s Pintonite, that’s what it is.”
Our visitor smiled happily. “It’s
going to make me the richest man
on Mars. I always suspected there
should be something like this
here — I’ve looked in places where
the areology is right for ten years,
and I’ve finally found and refined
it." He held up the bottle. “The
most powerful chemical explosive
ever known, by a factor of ten. One
gram’s enough to blow a ten-meter
crater in solid rock. It’ll re-
volutionize mining on the as-
teroids.”

Peter Pinton must have noticed
Waldo’s lack of enthusiasm at the
idea of looking after a super- bomb.
“Perfectly safe, nothing to wony
about,” he added. He shook the
bottle with great vigor.

I screamed so hard that no sound
came out and clapped my hands
over my ears. Waldo, with an
equally sound protective logic, cov-
ered his eyes with his hands. Pinton
cackled inanely. “Perfectly safe.
Only explodes under very special
conditions. Safe as water."

He reached into his jacket again
and produced a five thousand credit
note. “Here’s a down payment. I’ll
need your help when the time
comes to negotiate on this with
General Mining."

Now he was talking. I breathed
again, but Waldo still seemed curi-
ously reluctant to touch the phial or
the money. I decided that it was
time to introduce myself to our new
client.

36

GALAXY

I had second thoughts as I came
into the room. Peter Pinton was
offering the phial to Waido with his
right hand and absent-mindedly
scratching himself around the ribs
with his left. No wonder Waldo was
hesitant. I’ve read a hundred
theories as to how Earth fleas
evaded pre-flight inspection to get
to Mars, and 1 don’t believe any of
them. But when you’ve seen how
far a flea can jump under a surface
gravity only two- fifths that of Earth,
and with an atmosphere in the
domed cities only one -third as
dense, you have no trouble under-
standing how they’ve managed to
spread the way they have. I could
detect ripples of sympathetic itching
running up and down Waldo’s back.
As Peter Pinton and 1 shook hands
and he gave me the money and
phial, I watched him closely for
emigrants.

Pinton seemed relieved to be rid
of the bottle. “I told Muriel I
wanted somebody else to look after
the Pintonite this morning. I'm not
comfortable canying valuables in
the domicibile. I feel a lot easier
now. Weil, I’ll be off. See you in a
few days. 1 want to hear what
Muriel says when 1 tell her you're
looking after the Pintonite.”

“Your wife?” I asked politely.

He looked at me curiously.
“Now what would a maxi want with
a woman, out in (he red ranges?
Muriel’s my parrot.” And he was
gone without further comment.

Waldo took a big gulp of un-

sweetened coffee absent-mindedly
as Pinton left the room. His face
puckered like a punctured Mars
dome. For the past couple of days
he’d been holding down on his
calories and we’d thrown out every
temptation. The change so far was
imperceptible.

I locked the money in our cash
box and went through to the inner
office to put Pinton ’s phial into the
big cupboard, in among (he crock-
ery, stationery, low-calorie food
items and legal reference volumes. I
put it on the bottom shelf, next to
Waldo's weighing-machine. He’d
bought a spring balance, and de-
rived comfort from the thought that
he weighed less than eighty
kilos — his ‘college weight,’ as he
described it. I wondered if he was
looking at lunar brochures for his
next stopping-point when his
Mars-weight topped eighty.

In the front office Waldo had a
dreamy expression in his eyes. “If
General Mining would pay Pinton a
million credits for the rights to Pin-
toniie, I bet that United Chemicals
would offer double.”

I nodded. We discussed it no fur-
ther. As Disraeli remarked, sensible
men are all of (he same religion.
And pray, what is that? Sensible
men never tell. Substitute ’financial
views' for ‘religion’ there, and you
have my altitude exactly.

The next time Peter Pinton
showed up at the office I was on
my own. Waldo had gone off for a
meeting ‘with an industrial group’

PERFECTLY SAFE, NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT

37

and I had not asked for details. Pin-
ton sat down with the neat move-
ments of a man who spent most of
his life inside a three by four meter
domicibile — the standard house/
mobile lab/explorer vehicle of the
Mars rangers. He took a small jar
of white crystals from his jacket
pocket and placed it on the table.

“Version two,” he said.
“Purified, ten times as powerful per
gram. Take this for your safe and
give me the other one back — I need
it for a little demonstration later this
week.”

I hesitated and he misunderstood
my reluctance. “Oh, it's as safe as
the last lot. Under any normal cir-
cumstances, perfectly neutral. See
here.” He unscrewed the top of the
jar, licked his finger lip, dipped it
in the white powder and stuck it in
his mouth. He grinned happily as 1
goggled.

“Perfectly safe. Want a lick? It
doesn’t taste of much,” he assured
me. “Sort of yeasty and a bit
sweet.”

I declined the offer and went re-
luctantly through to the inner office.
I closed the door — so P inton
wouldn't see the non-existent
safe — and opened the cupboard to
get the phial. Would it still be
there? Thank heaven, it was, just
where 1 had left it. Perhaps I had
misjudged Waldo’s meeting. Feel-
ing much happier I placed the jar of
crystal Pintonite in the cupboard
and gave his phial back to Pinton. I
sat down again behind the desk.

Pinton seemed in no hurry and in a
chatty mood, and I wanted certain
information from him.

“Occurs naturally on Mars?" he
said, repeating my question. “Yes,
in erode form. Now that’s not
surprising — Mars has a different
geological history from Earth, so
we expect some different com-
pounds. Pintonite’s an isomeric
hydrocarbon -fluorocarbon form —

just as diamond is a form of carbon,
created under special conditions in
the history of the planet.”

“You mean you could make Pin-
tonite from other things, the way
we make diamonds?”

“Sure — if you knew the chemical
structure and were smart enough,
you could synthesize it. But why
bother? There’s plenty here on Mars
if you’re smart enough to know
where to look and what to look
for.” He preened himself. “You
see, the thing that makes Pintonite
so powerful is just an unusual hy-
drocarbon bond. It’s like a compres-
sed spring, with a catch on it. Un-
hook the catch, and all that energy
in the spring is released. The se-
cret’s in the chemical structure.”

“And that can be found by mea-
surement?”

“Sure. Any run-of-the-mill lab
could do it. That’s why I wanted to
have it here, where it’s safe, and
not where the industrial espionage
boys could lay their hands on it.”

His simple trust in the legal pro-
fession was touching. My suspi-
cions that he was a little cracked

38

GALAXY

were growing. As he left, those
suspicions were given a strong
boost by our neighbor along the
corridor. She was a youngish, talka-
tive mother of three, with a husband
who worked the day shift outside
the domes in the open-field agricul-
tural area. According to Waldo, she
fancied me — by comparison, I
suppose — but I had so far survived
with my honor intact.

As Peter Pinton departed she
came along the corridor and looked
into the office. Her hair had so
many curlers in it that she seemed
to be wearing an elaborate bronze
headpiece.

“What’s old Pete been doing in
here?” she inquired. “I haven’t
seen him for a year or two."

“Legal matters, Mrs. Wilkin-
son — I can’t betray a client’s confi-
dences, you know. Where did you
meet Mr. Pinton?”

“Oh, me and him had a thing
going for a while. Never got too
serious, though. He was always too
busy during the day — not like you
lawyers.” She paused and eyed me
speculatively for a few moments.
Gambit declined, she went on.
“Anyway, I got a bit tired of him
after a while. He was always going
on about his bloody parrot. No
wonder they all called him Looney
Pete.”

She turned her head back along
Ihe corridor, revealing the full
splendor of her ormolu helmet, and
shouted a snappy reply to a child’s
question. Then she smiled at me al-

luringly. “I’m just going to have a
cup of coffee and a little something
to go with it, Mr. Carver. Perhaps
you’d like to join me?"

As she raised her plucked eye-
brows inquiringly, Waldo’s familiar
figure loomed over her shoulder. I
looked at him with relief. She gave
him a savage glare and (hen disap-
peared down the corridor. Waldo
was in excellent spirits. I wondered
just what he’d been up to. Well, re-
gardless of that I had work of my
own to do now, as soon as I could
find the right place to help me. But
I must admit that I didn’t feel com-
forted by our lady neighbor’s report
on our client, Mr. Peter Pinton.

Neither Waldo nor I were particu-
larly alarmed at first when the Thar-
sis City police arrived. Our licenses
were in good shape, and our creden-
tials to practice law on Mars im-
peccable. As the only two lawyers
on the planet, we had framed the
bar charter ourselves.

Police Investigator Lestrade had
with him a saturnine, dark-haired
man from General Mining, a double
for Bela Lugosi in the classic
Dracula 2-D movies, whom he in-
troduced to us as Test Supervisor
Kozak.

Like most Martians, they seemed
puzzled by what Waldo and I actu-
ally did for a living. We explained
our activities and they dutifully re-
corded (hem with a slight air of dis-

PERFECTLY SAFE, NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT

39

belief. After the general introduc-
tions Lestrade cleared his throat,
scratched his thinning pate, and got
down to business.

“Yesterday, Mr. Peter Pinton
gave a demonstration of a powerful
new explosive to General Mining.
Mr. Kozak supervised the test.”
Lestrade spoke very slowly, picking
his words with care. “Now, we
would like you to tell us all that
you know about that explosive, Pin-
tonite.”

He stopped. We waited. No more
words came, apparently he was
done. 1 was puzzled by his accusing
manner and wondered again if
Waldo had been up to something.

“I think there may be a misun-
derstanding,” I finally replied.
“We know very little. We’re not
geologists or chemists, you know.
You want to talk to Peter Pinton
himself — he’s the expert.”

“You can ask him,” said Les-
trade morosely. He placed a silver
box on the desk, about the same
size and shape as a portable com-
municator. 1 looked at it for the
send/receive button but couldn’t see
it. I looked questioningly at Les-
trade, who pressed a catch on the
side of the box. The top opened to
reveal a layer of grey powder in-
side.

“There’s Peter Pinton, all there is
of him.” Lestrade looked at the box
with a certain macabre satisfaction.
“When he brought in his explosive,
with his claim that it was super-
powerful and completely safe, Mr.

Kozak insisted on a controlled de-
monstration. They put Pinton inside
a sealed metal tank to set up the test
and watched from outside. Pinton
was half right, you might say — it’s
far and away the most powerful
explosive anybody has ever seen.
But Pinton hadn’t told anybody the
chemical formula for it. Mr. Kozak
came to see us after the explosion
yesterday afternoon, and this morn-
ing we went over to see Polly — ”

“ — his parrot,” Waldo inter-
jected, nodding intelligently.

“ — Polly Pinton, his ex-wife,
now living in Chryse Dome,” Les-
trade went on. 1 He scrutinized
Waldo closely, as though mentally
measuring him for a straitjacket.
“She told us that Pinton had left a
sample of the explosive with Henry
Carver and Waldo Burmeister,
Lawyers, at this address.”

I sighed. So much for a deal with
United Chemicals. I looked at
Waldo. He shrugged and went into
the back room to get the Pintonite
sample.

After half a minute of banging
around in the cupboard he was
back, pale and sweating.

“Henry, it’s not there.” He sig-
nalled his next message with his
eyes, as clearly as if he had spoken
it: “What have you done with it,
Henry?”

1 was shocked. “It must be there,
Waldo, I saw it just yesterday. Let
me take a look. ”

1 went into the back room and
did a lightning but thorough search

40

GALAXY

of the cupboard. No jar of white
crystals, not a sign of it.

“Henry, for God’s sake, don’t
play games,” whispered Waldo
from just behind me. “Tell them
what you did with it, we can’t do
any deals now.”

I turned back to him. “What do
you mean, play games? Aren’t you
the one who took it to United
Chemicals?”

He shook his head. “1 was sup-
posed to meet them again tomor-
row, with a sample.”

We looked at each other in dis-
may and stupefaction. Finally we
went back into the outer office and
faced Lestrade. He took the news
that the Pintonite was gone with no
emotion. It seemed almost as
though he had expected something
like that. He nodded slowly.

“We’ll have to do a deep probe
to get information on this. Who was
here when Peter Pinton brought that
explosive in and discussed storing it
with you?”

"I was,” Waldo reluctantly vol-
unteered.

"And were you present, Mr.
Carver?” asked Lestrade.

"Only at the very end of the
meeting.” Thank heaven for literal
troth, and for the legal definition of
present.

"Right. Mr. Burmeister, you’ll
have to come with us. This exami-
nation will take a few hours.”

The game was over all right. But
thank heaven, too, for my own
foresight. I took out my wallet with

a sigh and removed a slip of paper
from it.

"I don’t think that will be neces-
sary, Mr. Lestrade. This contains
the chemical analysis of a Pintonite
sample, performed just a few days
ago.”

I handed it to him. Waldo looked
like a man reprieved at the eleventh
hour — psychoprobes were tough
stuff and a few people came out of
them with their brains permanently
scrambled. Kozak leapt on the
paper with a cry of joy and read it
while we watched.

After a few seconds of inspection
he began to turn into a vampire. His
teeth curled back from his upper lip
and a deep snarl came from him.
He seemed all set to leap and suck
blood.

"Mr. Carver,” he finally said in
choked tones. “You had a chemical
analysis done. I suppose you are
willing to tell us what type of
analysis was performed?”

Now I was really confused.
“Well, of course I am. I asked
them to do the most final and com-
plete one that they could. I forget
the exact word that was used on the
order.’’

“An ultimate analysis?”

“Yes, that’s it exactly.”

“You scientific illiterate,” he
screamed at once. “You great ba-
boon.” My information didn’t seem
to have pleased him. “An ultimate
chemical analysis gives the final
chemical composition in terms of
the percentage of each element. It

PERFECTLY SAFE, NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT

■41

doesn't tell you a thing about the
chemical structure." He waved the
paper in the air, literally gnashing
his teeth as he did so. I'd never en-
countered that before outside the
holodramas. “This just gives the
amount of carbon, hydrogen, oxy-
gen and fluorine. 1 could no more
make Pintonite from this informa-
tion than 1 could make your friend
here — ” He glowered at Waldo.
“ — from a barrel of lard and a sack
of flour.’’

An unfortunate example, I felt,
and quite uncalled for. They drag-
ged poor Waldo away to his fate. I
hoped he'd be back again, intact, in
a few hours. What on Earth — what
on Mars — had gone wrong? I was
sure Waldo had told me the truth —
so where was the Pintonite?

I wandered around the office,
looking everywhere I could think of
for the missing jar. No sign. 1
picked up the useless chemical
analysis paper — my trump card —
and looked at it sadly. Then 1
crumpled it into a ball and went
through to the inner office to throw
it into the trash.

I opened the lid of the trash
can — and froze. Suddenly, 1 under-
stood exactly what had happened to
the Pintonite. It had never occuned
to me to tell Waldo that Peter Pin-
ton had switched the phial of liquid
for a jar of crystalline Pintonite.
Waldo had been looking for the
phial, while I’d looked for the jar.
Now I’d found it. Empty. Waldo,
in his insane lust for sweetmeats,

had used three ounces of Pintonite
to sugar his coffee. “Yeasty and
sweet," Pinton had said.

When events call for it I can be a
man of action. In less than ten min-
utes I had made reservations for
Waldo and myself, immediate de-
parture for Deimos. It was time that
Burmeister and Carver found new
business offices. I’d write and tell
the Tharsis City police all about re-
cent events, but I’d much rather do
it from off-planet. I had a clear
mental picture of three ounces of
Pintonite going into and through
Waldo. Tharsis City had, as I re-
called, more than thirty thousand
meters of sewage pipes beneath it. I
could visualize a thin layer of Pin-
tonite spread through every bit.
Peter Pinton had said that it was
perfectly safe, but his reputation as
a reliable authority had diminished
considerably in the past few hours.
If the Tharsis City plumbing ar-
rangements happened to have the
right environment to set it off, it
might not be the biggest explosion
in the history of Mars, but it would
certainly be the most disgusting.

I sat down to wait impatiently
for Waldo’s return. On second
thoughts, I called and modified our
space travel reservations. I didn’t
know how long it took Pintonite to
pass completely through the human
alimentary canal. Separate flights. If
Waldo was about to fulfill my old
warning and finally, literally,
explode, I would rather not partici-
pate in the event. ★

42

GALAXY

A Time For Decisions

Jerry ftHuneUe.PhP

WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM

“W E SHALL NOBLY SAVE Or
meanly lose ihe last best hope of
Earth.”

Lincoln was talking about an en-
tirely different conflict when he said
that, but it is a statement that
applies to this generation in a way
that was never true of Lincoln’s. No
one today seriously believes that
human chattel slavery would have
survived into the present era no
matter what the Union did in 1860;
but I do seriously believe that a
generation a hundred years from
now might well curse our memory.

It was the general concensus of
the science press corps that this
year’s annual meeting of the Ameri-
can Association for the Advance-
ment of Science (AAAS) was the
least exciting of those we have re-
cently attended. I agreed at the
time. I don’t now.

In the first place, while most of
them had been reported earlier,
44

there were marvels enough: the
Homestake Mine experiments that
show there’s something wrong with
the Sun; VIKING, two whole days
worth, and all fascinating if non-
conclusive; new particles for the
basic physicists to play with. Any
of those would be worth headlines.
You can’t say 1976 was really dull.

Secondly, under the non-spec-
tacular headings, there was plenty of
food for deep thought; and there
was one announcement that ought
to stir your blood.

We can have on-line fusion
power by 1993. You could be run-
ning your car, or heating your wa-
ter, or shaving your anatomy with
power produced by deuterium-
tritium fiision, seven years before
this century ends. That's a good
twenty years earlier than we ex-
pected it; it’s in time to help get us
through those critical thirty years
I’ve spoken of in previous columns.

GALAXY

It’s in time to save the world.

So why will our children curse
our memory?

The fusion people came to AAAS
quietly ready to spring their bomb-
shell: to say that, given some breaks,
they'd have a reactor design by
1990 or so, and eight years after
(hat we could have on-line power.
Then, when the inevitable question
was asked about the earliest possi-
ble date, they would spring 1985 as
a target date for having a workable
reactor design, given (1) lotsa
money, and (2) a few bits of rather
probable luck. They were, justifi-
ably, prepared to do a bit of preen-
ing. They didn’t have any spectacu-
lar breakthroughs to announce, but
they could stack up the evidence
from dozens of laboratories and
hundreds of experiments and come
to the sudden realization that they
really think they know how to
achieve fusion — and, like the Man-
hattan Project, to bring it off in
more than one way at about the
same time.

Unfortunately the people who
were ready to make that announce-
ment weren’t at the AAAS meeting.
They were back in Washington.
You see. President Carter’s budget
had just come out: and cut from it
were $80 million in fusion research.
Instead of quietly preening about
accomplishments, the directors of
the labs at Los Alamos, Princeton,
Livermore, Sandia, were suddenly
confronted with the need to phase
out, stretch out, and probably to lay

off staff. That $80 million was cut
from the Ford budget which they
thought was already $50 million too
low.

Instead of quiet pride, we had
gloom and despair. “This country
has no national commitment to fu-
sion power,” saith one. “At the
level of funding indicated by the
new budget, we will stay with re-
search forever; we will never have a
reactor,” says another. “We’ll have
to lay off people who have devoted
their professional lives to fusion re-
search” says a third. All unfortu-
nately true. So the top people were
back in Washington, pleading with
Carter’s budgeters, and trying to
slip the word to Congress that this
wasn’t trimming fat, it wasn’t even
slicing muscle; it was amputation of
bone and sinew. As I write this
there’s vague hope that Congress
will restore at least part of those
cuts; but it doesn't look as if they’ll
succeed.

Understand: a few years ago I
wasn’t at all enthusiastic about
shovelling money in the general di-
rection of fusion research. Back in
1970 if you asked the fusion people
what they’d do if you doubled their
budget, they’d stammer a bit, and
eventually say they’d do more of
what they were doing: build two re-
search facilities, hire more people
. . . Hardly confidence-inspiring.

But that’s all changed. Now they
can tell you exactly what they want,
what pieces of hardware they need,
what experiments must be per-

A STEP FARTHER OUT

45

formed and how much they’ll cost.
They’ve got a handle on the prob-
lem. For example: in magnetic con-
finement the critical figure of merit
is the product of time and density
and temperature. Two years ago
they were at perhaps one percent of
the figure needed. Now they’re at
half. One more push and they reach
scientific breakeven; that is, the
reaction will produce more energy
than was put in.

Since any useful system will be
far less than 100% efficient, that's
still a long way from practical
power. But once scientific break-
even is achieved the rest is
engineering — and it’s the engineer-
ing that has been cut. Carter's
budget funds level-of-effort re-
search, and has nothing for new
equipment, expansion, new pro-
grams, etc.

Unfortunately, that’s not all my
gloomy news.

The Shuttle: Carter’s stretch-out
and delay of the first Shuttle flight
stands as I write this. Meanwhile,
out on the Mojave, the tethered
flights of the Shuttle (Cartoon: Shut-
tle mounted on back of 747. Cap-
tion: “Not tonight, dear, 1 have a
headache.”) have been so success-
ful that a final one has been can-
celled as not needed. She handles
like a dream, the pilots tell us.
About the time you read this they’ll
drop the Enterprise free of the 747
and let her glide in to a landing at
Edwards. Technically the Shuttle
program is ahead of schedule. Fi-

nancially it couldn’t matter less.

Fusion and space. Cheap, reliable
energy, and access to eight new
planets, thirty -four moons, and a
million asteroids. Power and raw
materials. We have it in our power
to give those to our children. Possi-
bly to enjoy their benefits within
our own lifetimes, but certainly to
give them to our children; and as
I’ve said repeatedly in previous col-
umns ("Survival with Style,”
“Blueprint for Survival,” “That
Buck Rogers Stuff”) once we have
plenty of energy and easy access to
space, the problems of mankind are
solved. Well, not really: I don’t pre-
tend there won’t be problems; I
write about them in my stories. But
the fear of starvation, environmental
pollution, mass poverty — will be-
come a memory. And that, I say, is
worth handing on.

I’ve given one picture of the fu-
ture in previous columns. For
another, let’s look at something else
that happened at the AAAS meet-
ing.

The bible of the Appropriate
Technology movement is E. F.
Schumacher’s Small Is Beautiful:
Economics as if People Mattered. I
confess I haven’t read it. I have at-
tempted to, several times, but each
time I come across some outrageous
statement such as “Statistics never
prove anything” (page 20), my
stomach hurts. Still, I am hardly

46

GALAXY

against his concepts as I thought I
understood them. As Joe Coates
(Office of Technology Assessment)
said, “Who can be in favor of in-
appropriate technology?”

The AP movement had a number
of events at the A A AS meeting, and
I attended them on the theory that I
would get a painless introduction
into what they were doing, that I
would hear some numbers, get
some reports, learn some appro-
priate technology — and be able to
pass it all on to my readers. After
all, I’m interested in saving energy,
and Larry Niven has turned off the
heaters in his swimming pool until
we can design and build a solar
heater for it; I’ve experimented with
hydroponic gardening, and I know
my readers would tike to hear about
practical ways to employ “appro-
priate technology” in their lives.

I got none of that. The first pre-
sentation consisted of an intermina-
ble series of slides (most out of
focus) showing ugliness presented
as if it were beauty. For some rea-
son photographs of privies domi-
nated the series: not only those
$3000 Swedish gizmos that more or
less automatically compost the stuff
right in your home (provided you
don’t have too large a family) but
also good old-fashioned ODT’s of
the kind my wife and I experienced
in our childhood. The kind with the
crescent cut in the door and a Sears
catalogue handy in case you run out
of Corncobs. “You only have to
fork the stuff over about every two

weeks,” we were told. “Of course
you can run into problems with city
departments of public health, so
most of these are in rural areas.”
My reaction was that I hoped to
God the city Department of Health
would give any of my neighbors
who installed an ODT not merely
problems, but citations.

There were wine vats converted
into bathtubs. We were solemnly
told that this was a Good Thing be-
cause it recycled and saved energy
and like that. Most of the audience,
predominately middle -class youth,
sat enraptured as if in church. I
wonder if they, at my age, would
care for the splinters? And dammit,
wine barrels are not appropriate as
bathtubs. They aren't comfortable,

A STEP FARTHER OUT

. 47

nor are they very well designed.

Another speaker told of how
Appropriate Technology changes
your head. When the wind comes
up at 2 am and the batteries are all
charged up, and you’ve got work to
do, why, you get up and do it.
Don’t waste that wind energy, be-
cause the windmill can’t really
power things at your convenience,
so you must adapt yourself to the
convenience of the earth.

There was more. A lot more, and
all in the same vein. Appropriate
Technology, it seems, is not for the
developing nations alone (if at all);
it’s for us. So just what is it? Ac-
cording to the Fact Sheet prepared
by the National Center for Appro-
priate Technology, the charac-
teristics are these: “(1) small scale,
(2) decentralized, (3) simple to un-
derstand and operate, (4) ecologi-
cally sound, and (3) labor inten-
sive.” Now who can be against
that?

Well, to begin with, I don't know
what “ecologically sound” means.
I have heard people say that any
permanent change in the ecology is
evil; does that include Kansas wheat
and Japanese rice, neither of which
is “natural”? But leave that, and
pass to point five, “labor inten-
sive.” That is not merely a neces-
sary evil. It is the heart of the AP
movement. Given the choice they’ll
take hard labor over machinery
every time. 1 call to evidence one of
their displays: a bicycle seat with
pedals attached to a chain that ran

a — wheat grinder. You can sit and
knead bread with the hands while
pumping away on the bicycle to
grind the wheat with your own
muscle power. In case you missed
the point, there was a film strip
showing how the bicycle seat sys-
tem could be attached to small
plows, dragging (hem through the
dirt; to pump water; etc., etc.

Now as an advance over the mor-
tar and pestle, a leg-powered crank
system is great; but blind donkeys
walking circles to tum the upper on
the nether millstone would be a hell
of a lot less dull (for us; no one
consults the donkey). In fact, on see-
ing that particular vision of the
future — and make no mistake about
it, these people mean that to be the
future — Larry Niven had a sugges-
tion. I should, he said, put on
jackboots and revolver, and carry a
whip; we would then find a gentle-
man of the black persuasion and
dress him in rags and have him sit
on the bicycle seat to grind our
bread. It should, Lany mused,
make a good photograph. A picture
of the future.

I can’t quarrel, except for details.
The person seated on the bicycle
seat might not be black, and might
not be male; the person with whip
might not be white or male; but if
grinding one's com to make one’s
bread requires that kind of labor,
then slavery is not far away. “In
the sweat of thy face shall thou eat
bread”; And mankind has been try-
ing to get someone else to do (he

48

GALAXY

sweating ever since, and rather suc-
cessfully at that. As a lark, as
something chic, labor-intensive
technology is all very well; but as a
necessity it gets regular : it is not
amusing as a way of life.

All right: we’ve had our laugh at
some silly people, extremists with a
sprinkling of opportunists. Now
let's get serious. Surely, Poumelle,
you can’t be against conservation?
Surely the AP movement, shorn of
the more ridiculous aspects (and any
view of life, carried to the extreme,
can be made to look ridiculous) has
great merit? Surely the idea is
sound?

I used to think so. I’m not sure I
do any longer. The more I listen to
the proponents of AP, the more I
understand what they're saying, (he
more 1 disagree. Look: why

shouldn’t we have heated swimming
pools? What’s wrong with big,
comfortable, fast automobiles? Why
is it evil to have throwaway
flashlights, electric can openers,
warm houses in winter, air condi-
tioning, luxury foods, electric
typewriters , plastic models, Fiber-
glas yachts with Dacron sails, pock-
et computers, my own postal scale
here in my office so l don’t have
to go down to the Post Office
before mailing this manuscript — all
the myriad conveniences, yea,
luxuries, of this marvelous modem
civilization?

They pollute. They cause long-
term harm to Mother Earth. Well,
let’s fix that. Give me sufficient
energy — and I know how to get
that — and they won’t have any
harmful long-term effects.

They use up irreplaceable re-
sources. Well, give me sufficient
energy and I’ll recycle most of
(hose. Give me access to space and
I’ll bring you more resources than
ever you dreamed of. And don’t
think I can’t do that.

They use up resources that should
go to the world’s poor. Well, give
me sufficient energy and access to
space and I’ll make the whole world
rich — and still have plenty left over
for what I want.

At this point the debate ceases.
The usual parting remark is, “I
wouldn’t expect you to under-
stand.” In other words, at bottom
the real enthusiasts of ‘‘Appro-
priate” Technology are motivated
by religion: by the work ethic; by
that remnant theme of Western (and
Eastern) philosophy that says “Life
should be hard.” In the sweat of
thy face shall thou eat bread. Pride
goeth before a fall. Doom and
catastrophe await the complacent.
Etc.

Well, maybe; but I will counter
them with the Parable of the Ta-
lents. Meanwhile, what’s wrong
with the AP movement is that it
docs not merely encourage the use
of small-scale, personally con-
structed improvements to one’s
life — something we can all agree is

A STEP FARTHER OUT

49

a Good Thing — but it discourages
any large-scale systematic solutions
to the truly overwhelming problems
facing our world. AP says we can
get out of our box through putting
beer cans on our roofs, building
windmills and privies, turning wine
vats into bathtubs, expecting less,
making do with less; and that sim-
ply ain't so, nor is it particularly
desirable.

In my last column I talked about
use of waste resources. Does any-
one seriously imagine that will
come about through everyone's in-
dividual efforts? That privies will
do the job? Just how appropriate is
Appropriate Technology? Would the
world really be better off if, instead
of trying to keep up with the litera-
ture, and writing, I were to fork my
own manure, grow my own vegeta-
bles, engage in labor-intensive ac-
tivities?

Understand. I’ve nothing against
developing ways that let everyone
contribute to our social order, and
I’ve no illusions about one unfortu-
nate side-effect of our technological
era: that it makes more and more
people helpless, unable to find
meaningful work, makes them feel
useless; to the extent that the AP
movement alleviates that, splendid.
But I do point out that many of our
large-city problems could be much
reduced if people would make such
minimum contributions as picking
up trash where they find it, putting
the lids on garbage cans, not litter-
ing, and the like — none of which

take the sustained and dreary effort
required to grind one’s own wheat
and bake one's own bread.

Two pictures of the future: the
bicycle-pedal wheat grinder with
lowered thermostat, or unlimited
energy and nearly boundless wealth.
Let’s leave the dreary picture and
look at the other one.

There was at the AAAS meeting
a symposium on the future of the
hand calculator. The predicted de-
velopments weren't startling, and
won’t be to anyone who’s read The
Mote In God's Eye ; but the time-
scale and prices were.

The limiting factor in costs of
hand-held computers is (he hard-
ware, such as keys and displays.
The limiting factor in size is simi-
larly the input-output mechanism.
The could already put the most
complex pocket calculator into your
watch if there were any reason to
do so — and if we could micto-
miniaturize our eyes and fingers so
that we could use the fool thing.
Within five years the most elaborate
calculators presently on the market
will sell for fifty bucks or less.

Within about the same time span
they’ll be able to put the Rubber
Handbook (The CRC Handbook of
Chemistry and Physics, twelve
pounds of tiny print) into a memory
unit connectable to a pocket cal-
culator and itself pocket-sized. In
not a lot more time they could put

50

GALAXY

the full capabilities of one of those
Altair micro-computers into a
hand-held calculator. If there was a
market for a million units, the cost
would be under fifty dollars. They
could already build the best of the
micro-computers into a box no
larger than its keyboard and read-out
screen.

One reason all this hasn’t hap-
pened is market potential: how
many people want or need a full-
capability programmable general-
purpose computer? All of us. I’d
say; but it requires some changes in
our educational philosophy. For
example: what is the value of know-
ing the times table? Why should we
be able to add up large columns of
numbers? Well, you might one day
be without your calculator. Self-
reliance. It's good for the soul.
Dammit, if we let the kids use cal-
culators in school from first grade
up, they’ll never understand
numbers . . .

As if most of them do now. I put
it to you that the ones who now
leam what numbers are ail about
will leam it anyway; and those who
never do learn can at least be taught
how to use a pocket calculator, thus
letting them have the opportunity to
be waitresses, store clerks, taxi
drivers, etc. When was the last time
a Galaxy reader used a log table?
Took a square root by pencil and
paper? Multiplied three-digit
numbers on paper? Added up a
large column of figures? Certainly I
do more calculations now than ever

MOVING?

Not very surprisingly, if you
are a Galaxy subscriber
chances are you tend to move
around a lot; seeing new
places, doing new things, living
in new homes. This is just fine,
of course, but from the rather
specialized point of view of our
Subscription Department it does
present a problem.

You see, while computers are
fast and accurate, they are not,
even ours, very bright. So when
you inform them of a change of
address, you should do it in a
special way. Like this;

NAME

STREET ADDRESS

CITY STATE ZIP

and you should include an ac-
tual Galaxy subscription
address-tabel from your old ad-
dress. Otherwise the computer
might not understand, and that
might mean that your next issue
of Galaxy doesn’t reach you as
quickly as it should: a terrible
state of affairs, indeed!

So, if you’re moving, please
send a change-of-address card,
made out as shown above, to-
gether with an old subscription
label, to:

Galaxy Subscription Dept.

POB 2897

Boulder, CO 80302
Thank you!

A STEP FARTHER OUT

51

I would if I had to go back to slide
rules; and my work is the better for
it. So is yours. Yet we are made to
feel guilty because . . , because
what? Because making things easier
is decadent? Nonsense.

Beyond the pocket calculator is
the implanted computer: the box
that you think at, giving you instant
access to the answer to any question
you can think of (provided that the
answer is known and stored, or cal-
culable). How long to that? Larry
and 1 ran into Dr. Adam Reed in
the halls, and we had a pleasant
chat. Reed is, you may recall, the
engineer/psychologist at Rockefeller
University who's working on
brain-computer interfaces.

He still puts preliminary results at
about ten years' distance. He also
reports new physiological evidence
for the holographic model of the
brain. (For more details on that
theory, see my previous column,
"Here Come the Brains,” October,
1974 Galaxy.) Coupled with the
truly remarkable advances in micro-
miniaturization achieved by Texas
Instruments, Hewlett-Packard, and
other micro-chip manufacturers, the
computer-in -your-head may well
come within my lifetime, almost
certainly within yours.

So what else is new? Well,
there's particle physics. Sub-nuclear
physics is in a rather confused state
at the moment, what with quarks.

flavors, colors, “gluons" (yes, I
said that; a postulated particle that
“glues" certain quarks together)
and every few months somebody
finds a new anomaly that won’t fit
what physicists think they know.
But there’s some hope now: Chen
Ning Yang, Albert Einstein Profes-
sor of Physics at the State Univer-
sity of New York, Sunny Brook,
confidently expects to have a
unified field theory within his
lifetime — if someone doesn’t beat
him to it.

The reason is simple: physicists
now have some new equipment to
play with. The big Fermi ac-
celerator at Batavia, Illinois; an
even more powerful beam ac-
celerator in Europe; these and other
multi -megabuck installations are
pouring out data, and some of it is
finally beginning to fall into place.
More and more often, physicists are
able to predict what kind of squig-
gle they’ll see in their bubble-
chamber after they send particles
racing off around the big accelerator
ring.

So what good is it? Well, as
Helmholtz once said, “The most
practical thing in the world is a
good theory” Does anyone want to
argue that James Clerk Maxwell’s
elegant equations — now appropriate-
ly emblazoned on t-shirts— didn’t
change the world? Or that the
theoretical work of a Swiss patent-
office clerk hasn't had an effect on
our lives? There’s at least as much
potential in the new particle theories

52

GALAXY

as ever there was in e = me 2 .
Forces (hat don’t decrease with dis-
tance. Interactions between nuclear
and electro-magnetic forces. As
Franklin said of his discovery, what
use is a newborn baby?

But (here’s a hitch. The theoreti-
cal advances in physics come
largely from new hardware, new
accelerators, equipment to let physi-
cists play with the basic building
blocks of the universe; and (hat
stuff is expensive. Our last several
Presidents gulped hard and came up
with the money for Fermi-lab. Our
present one seems to have cut out
every research item that won’t have
a payoff in the next four years.

Shuttle delayed: means Large
Space Telescope delayed. Mean-
while, a search of the historical re-
cords reveals the disturbing informa-
tion that our Sun really is a variable
star, and that we may live in a
rather unusual period: that our cli-
mate might change, and since the
present climate is about as favorable
as has ever been in the history of
the world, the change will likely be
for (he worse. Studying the Sun
won’t let us do anything about
that — but it will let us know what’s
happening, how long the changes
will last, and what we’re up
against.

There was a lot more, of course.
Bart J. Bok, formerly of Harvard,
has a good handle on how stars
are bom from “pre-proto-stars,”

namely balls of cold gas called,
appropriately enough, Bok Glob-
ules; a great deal about Mars
from the Viking team, with far
more to come as the data are
analyzed; a long symposium on the
right to die; a day on new informa-
tion about the polar regions (they’re
cold); not much on recombinant
ONA research, probably because
scientists are afraid to discuss it in
public; a non -spectacular panel
analyzing data from various “early
intervention” programs like Head
Start and concluding that such
things really do help, permanently,
and show a significant economic
profit in reduced crime rates (and
that was startling enough for me,
since I've tended to look at such
programs with jaundiced eye, and
must now rethink my position).

There was one moment of
triumph, when I saw the very large
displays on jojoba research, and
found that, to the bewilderment of
those involved, the Congress, react-
ing to constituent letters, had practi-
cally forced money into their hands.
So far as I know, many if not most
of those letters to the Congress
came from Galaxy readers; I know
of no other strong attempt to push
the jojoba bean.

But there was nothing really spec-
tacular in Denver. No screaming
matches that I saw, although my
wife found herself witnessing some
excitement among the educational
psychologists. There were no “e-
vents” such as the meeting a few

A STEP FARTHER OUT

53

years ago when the war protestors
and Free Speech Movement people
whapped Senator Hubert Humphrey
right smack in the mush with a ripe
tomato, or the time when the Com-
mittee Against Racism saw to it that
Professor Page and others were not
allowed to present their papers.

I didn't come away from Denver
with the ferment of excitement that
I experienced in previous meetings.
Instead, I kept thinking of that Lin-
coln quote I opened with. “We
shall nobly save or meanly lose the
last best hope of Earth.’’

We really are at such a crossroad.
This generation is blessed — or
cursed — with the ability to make as
fundamental an alteration in human
history as ever was made by the
discovery of the wheel, the taming
of animals, the use of fire. For the
cast of a couple of Apollo pro-
grams, peanuts really, we could
give all mankind for all time to
come boundless energy, energy to
waste, energy for luxuries; access to
space and its limitless resources; a
capability to harness the fundamen-
tal forces of nature.

We really could. But — we have
no national commitment to do so.
We have no national commitment to
do anything. At present we really
do seem in a quandary, unable to
make a basic choice between
Appropriate Technology and all its
philosophical implications, versus a
concerted national effort to exploit
technology and science to the ful-
lest, to commit the resources and

once and for all end physiological
want.

No: we cannot “solve” all
human problems. We may indeed
be opening wider Pandora's box.
There is no certainty that the scien-
tific djinn will not turn on us. Al-
ternatively, there is absolute cer-
tainty that without the djinn most of
the world faces starvation and pov-
erty, and we will have to adjust to a
way of life that may well include
the bicycle-pedal wheat grinder —
presuming we have the capability
even to manufacture those , after the
crunch.

In the past I've entitled these an-
nual reports on the state of the sci-
ences “This Generation of Won-
der,” and “Man’s Future: Prog-
nosis Magnificent,” and I’ve tried
to leave my readers with some
sense of the wonder I felt. I wish I
could do that this year; but I can’t.
The prognosis could be magnifleent;
but it is ail too clear that none of
those marvels will happen automat-
ically. They’re just too expensive.
Maybe when it’s steam engine time
steam engines will appear; but you
cannot say that about Space Shut-
tles, and fusion reactors, and Large
Space Telescopes, and accelerators.

And yet: it's no small thing, to
know that we live in a generation
that could, if we would, make as
great a contribution to human his-
tory as ever any did; that we could
be part of something as important as
the harnessing of fire and the dis-
covery of the wheel. ★

54

GALAXY

Frank Herbert
THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

What is Dosadi?

Saboteur Extraordinary Jorj X.
McKie must answer this question after
trapping himself on the planet of that

McKie knows that Dosadi’ s
imprisoned millions are sealed away
from the rest of the ConSentient
universe by an englabing barrier under
the control of a Caleban, The
Colebans are visible as stars in his
universe. They provide the
ConSentiency with jumpdoors through
which one can walk in one step from
planet to planet. They are a ‘useful
mystery’ and some believe them a
manifestation similar to the Taprisiot,
stubby, log-like people wha provide
instant mind-to-mind communication
across the parsecs.

Other things McKie knows:

That the master of Dosadi (those
outside the barrier ‘God Wall’ or those
inside) will destroy the planet and all
of its inhabitants soon unless he can
solve the undefined problem of this

He knows that Dosadi is a terrible
training ground for the recognition of
and use of power. But this planet’s
travail is a creation of some among the
Gowachin Frog People for whom
testing almost to extinction is a natural

And there is always something
beyond McKie’ s knowledge, some other
mystery about Dosadi which eludes
him even after he learns that people
can exchange old bodies for new on
this planet.

One of McKie’ $ foremost problems is
Keila Jedrik, a Human female on
Dosadi, a new warlord bred and
trained to free her planet from Us
secret imprisonment. Jedrik uses
mental simulation models of all those

she seeks to control, including those
unknown to her who imprison Dosadi.
She reads these latter forces through
their actions.

Jedrik has taken McKie as her lover
but with multiple and profoundly
Dosadi intent. She uses him for many
things while teaching him, even
leaching McKie about himself.
Through Jedrik, he sees how the
Gowachin could groom him for this
role because he was emotionally
flawed. And as Jedrik shows him the
cold relationship between two parents
who serve her, McKie learns that on
Dosadi love is a means of controlling
others. To be independent here, you
reveal no lave.

Another odd clue about the planet is
Pcharky, an aged Gowachin Jedrik
keeps in a cage which Pcharky built.
The cage glows and hums with stronge
energies.

Dosadi has only two sentient species:
Gowachin and Human. They are
descended from a memory-erased
population which volunteered for a
long-term psychological experiment.
The descendants, increasingly resistant
to memory-erasure, know they’re
puppets in a contrived hell. Dosadi’s
plants and animals are poisonous to
both species unless raised in
hydroponic isolation behind the
guarded walls of their one city, Chu.
All around the city, the people of the
Rim live short, violent lives in a
scramble far entry into the relative
purity of Chu.

McKie arrives at the beginning of a
race war , not knowing that Jedrik
ignited this battle of extinction because
of his arrival, that she considers
McKie her key to the Gad Wall.

But McKie also is an agent of the
ConSentiency’ s Bureau of Sabotage,

56

GALAXY

an ombudsman-like ministry which
learned about Dosadi's existence, that
it is a planet imprisoned by a Caleban,
that it is a Cowaehin crime.

McKie was the logical choice to seek
out Dosadi’s location. He had
developed a relationship with a
Caleban calling herself Fannie Mae,
and he is the only living
ntm-Gowachin admitted to practice
under Gowachin Law. Gowachin
distrust law (even their own) saying it
injures societies. They look first for
ways to disarm or remove taw when
problems arise. Above all, Gowochin
distrust any community or
professionals, especially legal
professionals. The ultimate use of
Gowachin Law is to dissolve old law
with a concommittanl application of

Assignment of McKie to the Dosadi
problem was made by his bureau chief,
Bildoon, a PanSpechi, whose species
can ape Human form but passes one
ego from person to person within a
five-member creche-family.

As his first move, McKie accepts a
summons to the Gowachin home planet
of Tandaloor, place of their
mythological progenitor, Mrreg. In
Gowachin myth, Mrreg was a monster
who tested the first primitive Frog
People almost to extinction, setting the
pattern of their deepest instincts.

On Tandaloor, McKie meets Aritch,
High M agister nf the most powerful
Gowachin Phylum, and a deadly
Wreave female nomed Ceytang who is
being trained as a Legum. If McKie
offends Ceylang, he risks vendetta with
the gigantic extended family which her
species creates through marital
exchanges.

McKie is forced to become Aritch’ s
Legum, occepting the Phylum’s sacred

box containing a book, a knife and a
rock — symbols of Gowachin Law and
reminders that any person using this
legal structure may forfeit his life.

Sent to Dosadi by Aritch's people,
McKie soon learns that he cannot
leave the planet in his existing
‘body Inode.’ This is part of the
Caleban contract. But McKie is equally
concerned with immediate survival as
Jedrik uses him first in one task and
then another to help her war against
the Dosadi Gowachin.

Opposing Jedrik is the planet’s
dominant warlord, the Elector Broey, a
Gowachin who speaks in secret with
the Caleban of the God Wall. Broey
knows some things about McKie,
considers the BuSab agent an idiot
savant, a weapons expert from beyond
the barrier. This is partly because
Jedrik’ s forces have taken McKie' s
sophisticated BuSab weapons and
improved upon them for the battle.

Among Broey’s aides are two
Humans, the Warlord Gar and Gar’s
daughter, Tria, who plot to build
another city on Dosadi in defiance of
their religious mandate. To keep their
place in the ruling council, Gar has
revealed this plot to Broey, who strives
in the face of a growing cynicism
about ‘ the God of the Wall,’ to find
the blasphemous city and destroy it.

One of Broey’s tools is a Human
named Havvy, a person from beyond
the Gad Wall whom Jedrik fudged
"too flawed” to use as a key to the
Caleban barrier.

Gar and Tria have developed a
suicide force of the Rim born which,
through Jedrik’s maneuvering, is
confined to an untenable corridor
between the forces of Jedrik and
Broey. Tria sees her impasse and, with
Gar, submits to capture by Jedrik.

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

57

A Dosadi-sensilized McKie, watching
Jedrik’s interrogation af Gar and Tria,
realizes that Tria was trained by a
PanSpechi. McKie forces Gar to reveal
that Tria is not his natural daughter,
that he found her as on abandoned
amnesiac child far out on the Rim,
raised her as his own. This aspect of
the Dosadi Experiment exposes for
McKie another of A r itch 's lies: the
Ritn is not outside the experiment, but
essential to it.

How many other lies did Aritch tell?
The High M agister said the Dosadi
were ‘monstrous,’ but McKie admires
their strengths, agreeing that the
Dosadi may well take over the
ConSentiency if released from their
planet. Aritch has said Dosadi was an
attempt to raise a population resistant
to all mediocrity imposed from above.
But there are hidden motives, perhaps
an attempt to make Gowachin Law the
basis for all ConSentient Law. McKie
knows he has been trained os a secret
pawn in the Dosadi game, but the
Gowachin are so ultimately civilized
they have come full circle into
savagery.

Jedrik, demonstrating to Gar and
Tria that McKie really is her
lieutenant, sends him into danger to
solve a battle problem at one of the
city's inner gates. McKie wins the
bottle and questions captives. One is a
Gowachin with scroll-like scars on his
eyelids, a poorly erased Phylum tatoo.
Making formal demand as a Legum,
McKie forces the captive to reveal that
only sixty hours remain before Dosadi
is destroyed, that ' ‘Mrreg sent me to
gel our people out of here. ”

Another prisoner is Havvy, who
reveals that Pcharky is intended to
transfer McKie's identity into Jedrik’s
body and Jedrik into McKie, giving her

5B

the perfect disguise for escaping from
Dosadi. However, McKie recognizes
something else — that a Caleban looks
out through Navvy’s eyes. Sending a
message through this Caleban, McKie
warns Aritch to adhere to the
traditional relationship between Legum
and Client lest all Gowachin be targets
for extermination.

McKie, his mind threading through
the layers within layers of the Dosadi
problem, returns to Jedrik and gives
her the essential datum for
overwhelming Broey: use the fanatics
offered by Gar and Tria to attack the
Gowachin graluz breeding pools.
Jedrik fust sends word af this threat to
Broey, then tells McKie to go back to
their room with her, that it’s time for
their showdown. McKie obeys
wondering: Is it to be body exchange?

Back on Tandaloor, Ceylang has
been watching simulations and actual
scenes of McKie’s performance on
Dosadi. She tells Aritch: “Sometimes I
think those Dosadi play us like a fine
instrument.”

Aritch: “Of course! That’s why we
sent them McKie. ”

Geriatric or ofher life extension for
the powerful poses a similar threat to
a sentient species as that found histor-
ically in the dominance of a self-
perpetuoting bureaucracy. Both
assume prerogatives of immortality,
collecting more ond more power with
each passing moment. This is power
which draws a theological aura about
itself — the unassailable Law, the
Gad-given mandote of the leader,
manifest destiny. Power held too long
within a narrow framework moves
farther and farther oway from the

GALAXY

adaptiva demands of changed
conditions. The leadership grows ever
more paranoid, suspicious of inventive
adaptations to change, fearfully
protective of persanol power and, in
the terrified avoidance of what it sees
os risk, blindly- leads its people into
destruction.

— BuSab Manual

“Very well. I’ll tell you what
bothers me,” Ceylang said. “There
are too many things about this prob-
lem that I fail to understand.”

From her seated position, she
looked across a small round room at
Aritch, who floated gently in a tiny
blue pool. His head at the pool’s lip
was almost on a level with
Ceylang’s. Again, they had worked
late into the night. She understood
the reasons for this, the time pres-
sures were quite apparent, but the
peculiar Gowachin flavor of her
training kept her in an almost con-
stant state of angry questioning.

This whole thing was so un-
Wreave!

Ceylang smoothed the robe over
her long body. The robe was blue
now, one step away from Legum
black. Appropriately, there was blue
all around her — the walls, the floor,
the ceiling, Aritch ’s pool.

The High M agister rested his chin
on the pool's edge to speak.

“I require specific questions be-
fore I can even hope to penetrate
your puzzlement.”

“Will McKie defend or prose-
cute? The simulator ...”

“Damn the simulator! Odds are
that he'll make the mistake of pro-
secuting. Your own reasoning powers
should ...”

“But if he doesn’t?”

“Then selection of the judicial
panel becomes vital.”

Ceylang twisted her body to one
side, feeling the chairdog adjust for
her comfort. As usual, Aritch ’s an-
swer only deepened her sense of
uncertainty. She voiced that now.

“I continue to have this odd feel-
ing that you intend me to play some
role which I’m not supposed to dis-
cover until the very last instant.”

Aritch breathed noisily through
his mouth, splashed water onto his
head.

“This all may be moot. By this
time day after tomorrow, Dosadi
and McKie may no longer exist.”

“Then I will not advance to
Legum?”

“Oh, I’m fairly certain you’ll be
a Legum.”

She studied him, sensing irony,
then:

“What a delicate line you walk,
High Magister.”

“Hardly. My way is wide and
clear. You know the things I cannot
countenance. I cannot betray the
Law or my people.”

“I have similar inhibitions. But
this Dosadi thing ... so tempt-
ing.”

“So dangerous! Would a Wreave
don Human flesh to learn the
Human condition? Would you per-
mit a Human to penetrate Wreave
society in this ...”

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

59

"There are some who might con-
spire in this! There are even
Gowachin who ...”

“The opportunities for misuse are
countless."

“Yet you say that McKie already
is more Gowachin than a
Gowachin."

Aritch’s webbed hands folded
over the pool’s edge. The claws ex-
tended.

“We risked much in training him
for this task.”

"More than you risk with me?"

Aritch withdrew his hands, stared
at her, unblinking.

“So that’s what bothers you.”

“Precisely.”

“Think, Ceylang, how near the
core of Wreavedom you would
permit me to come. Thus far and no
farther will we permit you.”

“And McKie?”

“May already have gone too far
for us to permit his continued ex-
istence.”

“I heed your wanting, Aritch.
But I remain puzzled as to why the
Calebans couldn’t prevent ...”

“They profess not to understand
the ego transfer. But who can un-
derstand a Caleban, let alone con-
trol one in a matter so delicate?
Even this one who created the God
Wall . . .”

“It’s rumored that McKie under-
stands Calebans.”

“He denies it.”

She rubbed her pocked left jowl
with prehensile mandible, felt the
many scars of her passage through
the W reave triads. Family to family

until it was a single gigantic family.
Yet, all were Wreave. This Dosadi
thing threatened a monstrous parody
of Wreavedom. Still . . .

“So fascinating,” she murmured.

“That’s its threat.”

“We should pray for the death of
Dosadi.”

“Perhaps.”

She was startled.

“What ...”

“This might not die with Dosadi.
Our sacred bond assures that you
will leave here with this knowledge.
Many Gowachin know of this
thing.”

“And McKie.”

“Infections have a way of spread-
ing," Aritch said. “Remember that
if this comes to the Court-arena.”

There are some forms of insonity
which, driven to on ultimate expres-
sion, can become the new models of
sanity.

— BuSab

"McKie?”

It was the familiar Caleban pres-
ence in his awareness, as though he
heard and felt someone (or some-
thing) which he knew was not
there.

The preparation had been decep-
tively simple. He and Jedrik clasped
hands, his right hand and her left,
and each grasped one of the shim-
mering rods with the other hand.

McKie did not have a ready iden-

60

GALAXY

tify for this C ale ban and wondered
at the questioning in her voice. He
agreed, however, that he was in-
deed McKie, shaping the thought as
subvocalized conversation. As he
spoke, McKie was acutely aware of
Jedrik beside him. She was more
than just another person now. He
canied a tentative simulation model
of her, sometimes anticipating her
responses.

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

“You make mutual agreement?”
the Caleban asked.

McKie sensed Pcharky then: a
distant presence, the monitor for
this experience. It was as though
Pcharky had been reduced to a
schematic which the Caleban fol-
lowed, a set of complex rules many
of which could not be translated
into words. Some part of McKie re-
sponded to this as though a monster
61

awakened within him, a sleeping
monster who sat up full of anger at
being aroused thus, demanding:

‘‘Who is it that dares awaken
me?”

McKie felt his body trembling,
felt Jedrik trembling beside him.
The Caleban/Taprisiot- trembling, the
sweaty response to trance! He
saw these phenomena now in a dif-
ferent light. When you walked at
the edge of this abyss . . .

While these thoughts passed
through his mind, he felt a slight
shift, no more than the blurred re-
flection of something which was not
quite movement. Now, while he
still felt his own flesh around him,
he also felt himself possessed of an
inner contact with Jedrik's body and
knew she shared this experience.

Such a panic as he had not
thought possible threatened to
overwhelm him. He felt Jedrik try-
ing to break the contact, to stop this
hideous sharing, but they were
powerless in the grip of a force
which would not be stopped.

No time sense attached itself to
this experience, but a fatalistic calm
overcame them almost simulta-
neously. McKie felt awareness of
Jedrik/flesh deepen. Curiosity domi-
nated him now.

So this is woman!

This is man?

They shared the thoughts across
an indistinct bridge.

Fascination gripped McKie. He
probed deeper.

He/she could feel himself/herself

breathing. And the differences! It
was not the genitalia, the presence
or lack of breasts. She felt bereft of
breasts. He felt acutely distressed
by their presence, self-consciously
aware of profound implications. The
sense of difference went back be-
yond gamete McKie/Jedrik.

McKie sensed her thoughts, her
reactions.

Jedrik sensed him in the same
way.

Jedrik: “You cast your sperm
upon the stream of time.”

McKie: “You enclose and nur-
ture . . .”

“I cast/I nurture.”

It was as though they looked at
an object from opposite sides,
aware belatedly that they both
examined the same thing.

“We cast/we nurture."

Obscuring layers folded away and
McKie found himself in Jedrik's
mind, she in his. Their thoughts
were one entity.

The separate Dosadi and ConSen-
tient experiences melted into a sin-
gle relationship.

“Aritch . . .ah, yes. You see?
And your PanSpechi friend, Bil-
doon. Note that. You suspected, but
now you know ...”

Each set of experiences fed on
the other, expanding, refining . . .
condensing, discarding, creating . . .
creating ...

So that’s the training of a Legum.

Loving parents? Ahhh, yes, lov-
ing parents.

“I/we wilt apply pressure

62

GALAXY

there ... and there . . . They must
be maneuvered into choosing that
one as a judge. Yes, that will give
us the required leverage. Let them
break their own code.”

And the awakened monster stirred
within them. It had no dimension,
no place, only existence. They felt
its power.

' 7 do what / do’’ ’

The power enveloped them. No
other awareness was permitted.
They sensed a primal current, un-
swerving purpose, a force which
could override any other thing in
their universe. It was not God, not
Life, not any particular species. It
was something so far beyond such
articulations that Jedrik/McKie could
not even contemplate it without a
sense that the next instant would
bring obliteration.

They felt a question hurled at
their united, fearful awareness. The
question was framed squarely in
anger, astonishment, cold amuse-
ment and threat.

“For this you awaken me?”

Now, they understood why the
old body and donor-ego had always
been slain immediately. This terri-
ble sharing made a . . . made a
noise. It awakened a questioner.

They understood the question
without words, knowing they could
never grasp the full meaning and
emotive thrust, that it would bum
them out even to try. Anger . . .as-
tonishment . . . cold amusement
. . . threat. The question as their
own united mind(s) interpreted it

represented a limit. It was all that
Jedrik/McKie could accept.

The intrusive questioner receded.
They were never quite sure af-
terward whether they’d been expel-
led or whether they’d fled in terror,
but the parting words were burned
into their combined awareness.

“Let the sleeper sleep.’’

They walked softly in their minds
then. They understood the warning,
but knew it could never be trans-
lated in its fullest threat for any
other sentient being.

Concurrent: McKie/Jedrik felt a
projection of terror from the God
Wall Caleban, unfocused, unex-
plained. It was a new experience in
the male-female collective memory.
Caleban Fannie Mae had not even
projected this upon original McKie
when she’d thought herself doomed.

Concurrent: McKie/Jedrik felt a
bumt-out-fading from Pcharky.
Something in that terrible contact
had plunged Pcharky into his death
spiral. Even as McKie/Jedrik re-
alized this, the old Gowachin died.
It was a slammed door. But this
came after a blazing realization by
McKie/Jedrik that Pcharky had
shared the original decision to set
up the Dosadi experiment.

McKie found himself clothed in
living, breathing flesh which routed
its messages through his awareness.
He wasn’t sure which of their two
bodies he possessed, but it was dis-

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

63

tinct, separate. It wrapped him in
Human senses: the taste of salt, the
smell of perspiration and the om-
nipresent Warren stink. One hand
held cold metal; the other clasped
the hand of a fellow Human. Pers-
piration drenched this body, made
the clasped hands slippery. He felt
that knowing which hand held
another hand was of utmost impor-
tance, but he wasn’t ready to face
that knowledge. Awareness of self,
this new self, and a whole lifetime
of new memories, demanded all of
the attention he could muster.

Focus: A Rim city, never outside
Jedrik’s control because she had fed
the signals through to Gar and Tria
with exquisite care and because
those who gave the orders on the
Rim had shared in the generations
of selective breeding which had
produced Jedrik. She was a biologi-
cal weapon whose sole target was
the God Wall.

Focus: Loving parents can thrust
their child into deadly peril when
they know everything possible has
been done to prepare that child for
survival.

The oddity to McKie was that he
felt such things as personal
memories.

“I did that.”

Jedrik suffered the throes of simi-
lar experiences.

Which body?

So that was the training of a
BuSab agent. Clever . . .almost
adequate. Complex and full of
much that she found to be new, but

why did it always stop short of a
full development?

She reviewed the sessions with
Aritch and Ceylang. A matched
pair. The choice of Ceylang and the
role chosen for her appeared obvi-
ous. How innocent! Jedrik felt her-
self free to pity Ceylang. When al-
lowed to run its course, this was an
interesting emotion. She had never
before felt pity in un colored purity.

Focus: McKie actually loved her.
She savored this emotion in its
ConSentient complexity. The straight
flow of selected emotions fasci-
nated her. They did not have to be
bridled!

In and out of this creative ex-
change there wove an intimacy, a
pure sexuality without inhibitions.

McKie, savoring the amusement
Jedrik had felt when Tria had
suggested a McKie/Jedrik breeding,
found himself caught by demanding
male eroticism and knew by the
sensation that he retained his old
body.

Jedrik, understanding McKie's
long search for a female to com-
plete him, found her amusement
converted to the desire to demon-
strate that completion.

As she turned toward him, releas-
ing the dull rod which had once
shimmered in contact with Pcharky,
she found herself in McKie’s flesh
looking into her own eyes.

McKie gasped in the mirror ex-
perience.

Just as abruptly, driven by shock,
they shifted back into familiar flesh:

64

GAiAXY

McKie male, Jedrik female. In-
stantly, it became a thing to
explore — back and forth. Eroticism
was forgotten in this new game.

“We can be either sex/body at
will!”

It was something beyond Tap-
risiots or Calebans, far more subtle
than the crawling progression of a
PanSpechi ego through the bodies
from its creche.

They knew the source of this odd
gift even as they sank back on the
bed, content to be familiar male and
female for a time.

The Monster.

This was a gift with barbs in it,
something loving parents might give
their child in the knowledge that it
was time for this lesson. Yet they
felt revitalized, knowing they had
for an instant tapped an energy
source without limits.

A pounding on the door inter-
rupted this shared reverie.

“Jedrik! Jedrik!”

“What is it?”

“It’s Broey. He wishes to talk to
McKie.”

They were off the bed in an in-
stant.

Jedrik glanced at McKie, know-
ing she had not one secret from
him, that they shared a reasoning
base. Out of the mutual understand-
ing in this base, she spoke for both
of them.

“Does he say why?”

“Jedrik. . . .”

They both recognized the voice
of a trusted aide and heard the fear

in it.

“. . . it’s midmoming and there
is no sun. God has turned off the

“Sealed u$ in . . .”

“. . . to conceal the final blast.”

Jedrik opened the door, con-
fronted the frightened aide.

“Where is Broey?”

“Here ... in your command
post. He came alone without es-
cort.”

She glanced at McKie. “You will
speak for us.”

Broey waited near the position
board in the command post. Watch-
ful Humans stood within striking
distance. He turned as McKie and
Jedrik entered. McKie noted that
the Gowachin’s body was, indeed,
heavy with breeding juices as an-
ticipated. Unsettling for a
Gowachin.

“What are your terms, McKie?”

Broey ’s voice was gutteral, full
of heavy breathing.

McKie ’s features remained

Dosadi-bland, but he thought; Broey
thinks I'm responsible for the dark-
ness. He’s terrified.

McKie glanced at the threatening
black of the windows before speak-
ing. He knew this Gowachin from
Jedrik ’$ painstaking study. Broey
was a sophisticate, a collector of
sophistication who surrounded him-
self with people of the same stripe.
He was a professional sophisticate
who read everything through that
peculiar Dosadi screen. No one
could come into his circle who

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

65

didn’t share this pose. All else re-
mained outside and inferior. He was
an ultimate Dosadi, a distillation,
almost as Human as Gowachin be-
cause he'd obviously once worn a
Human body. He was Gowachin at
his origins, (hough ... no doubt of
it.

“You followed my scent,”
McKje said.

“Excellent!” Broey brightened.
He had not expected a Dosadi ex-
change, pared to the non-emotional
essentials.

‘ ‘ Unfortunately , ’ ’ McKie said ,
“you have no position from which
to negotiate. Certain things will be
done. You will comply willingly,
your compliance will be forced, or
we will act without you.”

It was a deliberate goading on
McKie ’s part, a choice of non-
Dosadi forms to abbreviate this con-
frontation. It said more than any-
thing else that McKie came from be-
yond the God Wall, that the dark-
ness which held back the daylight
was the least of his resources.

Broey hesitated, then:

“So?”

The single word fell on the air
with countless implications: an en-
tire exchange discarded, hopes
dashed, a hint of sadness at lost
powers, and still with that sophisti-
cated reserve which was Broey ’s
signature. It was more subtle than a
shrug, more powerful in its Dosadi
overtones than an entire negotiating
session.

"Questions?” McKie asked.

Broey glanced at Jedrik, ob-
viously surprised by (his. It was as
though he appealed to her: They
were both Dosadi, were they not?
This outsider came here with his
gross manners, his lack of Dosadi
understanding. How could one
speak to such a one? He addressed
Jedrik.

“Have I not already stated my
submission. I came alone, I . . .”

Jedrik picked up McKie ’s cue.

“There are certain . . .pecu-
liarities to our situation.”

“Peculiarities?”

Broey’ s nictating membrane

blinked once.

Jedrik allowed her manner to
convey a slight embarrassment.

“Certain delicacies of the Dosadi
condition must be overlooked. We
are now, all of us, abject suppli-
cants . . . and we are dealing with
people who do not speak as we
speak, act as we act . . .”

"Yes.” He pointed upward.
“The mentally retarded ones. We
are in danger then.”

It was not a question. Broey
peered upward, as though trying to
see through the ceiling and interven-
ing floors. He drew in a deep
breath.

“Yes.”

Again, it was compressed com-
munication. Anyone who could put
the God Wall there could crush an
entire planet. Therefore, Dosadi and
all of its inhabitants had been
brought to a common subjection.
Only a Dosadi could have accepted

66

GALAXY

it this quickly without more
questions and Broey was an ulti-
mate Dosadi.

McKic turned to Jedrik. When he
spoke, she anticipated every word,
but she waited him out.

“Tell your people to stop all at-
tacks.”

He faced Broey.

“And your people.”

Broey looked from Jedrik to
McKie, back to Jedrik with a puz-
zled expression openly on his face,
but he obeyed.

“Which communicator?”

Where pain predominates, agony can
be a valued teacher.

— Dosadi Aphorism

McKic and Jedrik had no need to
discuss (he decision. It was a choice
which they shared and knew they
shared through a memory- selection
process now common to both of
them. There was a loophole in the
God Wall and even though that wall
now blanketed Dosadi in darkness,
a C ale ban contract was still a Cale-
ban contract. The vital question was
whether the Caleban of the God
Wall would respond.

Jedrik in McKie’s body stood
guard outside her own room while a
Jedrik-fleshed McKie went alone
into the room to make the attempt.

Who should he try to contact? Fan-
nie Mae? The absolute darkness
which enclosed Dosadi hinted at an
absolute withdrawal of (he guardian
Caleban. And there was so little
time.

McKie sat cross-legged on the
floor of the room and tried to clear
his mind. The constant strange dis-
coveries in the female body he now
wore interfered with concentration.
The moment of exchange left an af-
tershock which he doubted would
ever diminish. They had but to
share the desire for the change now
and it occurred. But this different
body . . . ahh, the multiplicity of
differences created its own confu-
sions. These went far beyond the
adjustments to different height and
weight. The muscles of his-her arms
and hips felt wrongly attached. The
bodily senses were routed through
different unconscious processes.
Anatomy created its own patterns,
its own instinctual behavior. For
one thing, he found it necessary
to develop consciously-monitored
movements which protected his/her
breasts. The movements were re-
miniscent of those male adjustments
by which he prevented injury to
testes. These were movements
which a male learned early and re-
legated to an automatic behavior
pattern. The problem in the female
body was that he had to think about
such behavior. And it went far be-
yond the breast/testes interlock.

As he tried to clear his mind for
the Caleban contact, these webbed

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

67

clusters of memory intruded. It was
maddening. He needed to clear
away bodily distractions, but this
female body demanded his atten-
tion. In desperation, he hyper-
ventilated and burned his awareness
into a pineal focus whose dangers
he knew only too well. This was
the way to permanent identity loss
if the experience was prolonged. It
produced a sufficient clarity, how-
ever, that he could fill his aware-
ness with memories of Fannie Mae.

Silence.

He sensed time’s passage as
though each heartbeat were a blow.

Fear hovered at the edge of the
silence.

It came to him that something
had put a terrible fear into the God
Wall Caleban.

McKie felt anger.

“Caleban! You owe me!”

"McKie?”

The response was so faint that he
wondered whether it might be his
hopes playing tricks on him.

“Fannie Mae?”

That was stronger and he rec-
ognized the familiar Caleban pres-
ence in his awareness.

“I am McKie and you owe me a
debt.”

“If you are truly McKie . . .why
are you so. . .strange. . .changed?”

"I .wear another body.”

McKie was never sure, but he
thought he sensed consternation.
Fannie Mae responded more
strongly then.

“I remove McKie from Dosadi

now? Contract permits.”

“1 will share Dosadi’s fate.”
“McKie!”

“Don’t argue with me, Fannie
Mae. I will share Dosadi’s fate un-
less you remove another node/
person with me.”

He projected Jedrik’s pattern
then, an easy process since he
shared all of her memories.

“She wears McKie ‘s body!”

It was accusatory.

“She wears another body,”
McKie, said. He knew the Caleban
saw his new relationship with Jed-
rik. Everything depended now on
the interpretation of the Caleban
contract.

“Jedrik is Dosadi,” the Caleban
protested.

“So am I Dosadi . . .now."

“But you are McKie!”

“And Jedrik is also McKie. Con-
tact her if you don't believe me.”

He broke the contact with an
angry abruptness, found himself
sprawled on the floor, still twitch-
ing. Perspiration bathed the female
body which he still wore. The head
ached.

Would Fannie Mae do as he’d
told her? He knew Jedrik was as
capable of projecting his awareness
as he was of projecting hers. How
would Fannie Mae interpret the
Dosadi contract?

Gods! The ache in his head was a
burning thing. He felt alien in Jed-
rik’s body, misused. The pain per-
sisted and he wondered if he’d done
irreparable harm to Jedrik’s brain

GALAXY

through that intense pineal focus.

Slowly, he pushed himself up-
right, got to his feet. The Jedrik
legs felt weak beneath him. He
thought of Jedrik outside that door
trembling in the zombie-like trance
required for this mind-to-mind con-
tact. What was taking so long? Had
the Calebans withdrawn?

Have we lost?

He started for the door but before
he’d taken the second step, light
blazed around him. For a fractional
heartbeat he thought it was the final
fire to consume Dosadi, but the
light held steady. He glanced
around, found himself in the open
air. It was a place he recognized
immediately: the courtyard of the
Dry Head compound on Tandaloor.
He saw the familiar phylum designs
on the surrounding walls — green
Gowachin script on yellow bricks.
There was the sound of water
splashing in the comer pool. A
group of Gowachin stood in an
arched entry directly ahead of him
and he recognized one of his old
teachers. Yes . . . this was a Dry
Head sanctus. These people had
protected him, trained him, intro-
duced him to their most sacred se-
crets.

The Gowachin in the shadowed
entry were moving excitedly into
the courtyard, their attention cen-
tered on a figure sprawled near
them. The figure stirred, sat up.

McKie recognized his own body
there.

Jedrik!

It was an intense mutual need.
The body exchange required less
than an eyeblink. McKie found
himself in his own familiar body,
seated on cool tiles. The approach-
ing Gowachin bombarded him with
questions.

“McKie, what is this?”

“You fell through ajumpdoor!"

“Are you hurt?”

He waved the questions away,
crossed his legs and fell into the
long-call trance focused on that
bead in his stomach. That bead Bil-
doon had never expected him to
use!

As it was paid to do, the Tap-
risiot waiting on CC enfolded his
awareness. McKie rejected contact
with Bildoon, made six calls
through the responsive Taprisiot.
The calls went to key agents in
BuSab, all of them ambitious and
resourceful, all of them completely
loyal to the agency’s mandate. He
transmitted his Dosadi information
in full bursts, using the technique
derived from his exchanges with
Jedrik — mind-to-mind .

There were few questions and
those easily answered.

“The Caleban who holds Dosadi
imprisoned plays God. It’s the letter
of the contract.”

“Do the Calebans approve of
this?”

That question came from a par-
ticularly astute Wreave agent sensi-
tive to the complications implicit in
the fact that the Gowachin were

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

69

training Ceylang, a Wreave female,
as a Legum.

“The concepts of approval or
disapproval are not applicable. The
role was necessary for that Caleban
to carry out the contract.”

"It was a game?”

The Wreave agent was outraged.

"Perhaps. There’s one thing cer-
tain: the Calebans don't understand
harmful behavior and ethics as we
understand them.”

“We’ve always known that.”

“But now we’ve realty learned
■it.”

When he’d made the six calls,
McKic sent his Taprisiot questing
for Aritch, found the High Magister
in the Running Phylum’s conference
pool.

“Greetings, Client.”

McKie projected wry amusement.
He sensed the Gowachin’s shock.

“There are certain things which
your Legum instructs you to do
under the holy seal of our relation-
ship,” McKie said.

"You will take us into the Coun-
arena, then?”

The High Magister was percep-
tive and he was a beneficiary of
Dosadi’s peculiar gifts, but he was
not a Dosadi. McKie found it rela-
tively easy to manipulate Aritch
now, enlisting the High Magister's
deepest motivations. When Aritch
protested against cancelling the God
Wall contract, McKie revealed only
the first layer of stubborn determi-
nation.

“You will not add to your

Legum ’s difficulties,” McKie said.

“But what will keep them on
Dosadi?"

“Nothing.”

“Then you will defend rather
than prosecute?”

“Ask your pet Wreave,” McKie
said. “Ask Ceylang.”

He broke the contact then, know-
ing Aritch could only obey him.
The High Magister had few choices,
most of them bad ones. And
Gowachin Law prevented him from
disregarding his Legum ’s orders
once the pattern of the contest was
set.

McKie awoke from the call to
find his Dry Head friends clustered
around Jedrik. She was explaining
their predicament. Yes . . . there
were advantages to having (wo
bodies with one purpose. McKie got
to his feet. She saw him, spoke.

“My head feels better.”

“It was a near thing.” And he
added:

“It still is. But Dosadi is free.”

In the classical times of several species
it was the custom of the powerful to
nudge the power -counters (money or
other economic tabulators, status
points, etc.) into occasional violent
perturbations from which the knowl-
edgeable few profiled. Human
accounts of this experience reveal
edifying examples of this behavior (for
which, see Appendix G). Only the
PanSpechi appear to have avoided

70

GALAXY

this phenomenon, possibly because of
creche slavery.'

— Comparative History,
The BuSab Text

McKie made his next series of
calls from the room the Dry Heads
set aside for him. It was a relatively
large room reserved for Human
guests and contained well -trained
chairdogs and a wide bedog which
Jedrik eyed with suspicion despite
her McKie memories of such
things. She knew the things had
only a rudimentary brain, but still
they were . . . alive.

She stood by the single window
which looked out on the counyard
pool, turning when she heard
McKie awaken from his Taprisiot
calls.

“Suspicions confirmed,” he said.

“Will our agent friends leave
Bildoon for us?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She turned back to the window.

“1 keep thinking how the Dosadi
sky must look now . . . without a
God Wall. As bright as this.” She
nodded toward the courtyard seen
through the window. “And when
we get jumpdoors ...”

She broke off. McKie, of course,
shared such thoughts. This new in-
timacy required considerable ad-
justment.

“I’ve been thinking about your
training as a Legum,” she said.

McKie knew where her thoughts
had gone. The Gowachin chosen to
train him had all appeared open in
their relationship. He had been told
that his teachers were a select
group, chosen for excellence, the
best available for the task: making a
Gowachin out of a non -Gowachin.

A silk purse from a iow'r ear!

His teachers had appeared to lead
conventional Gowachin lives, keep-
ing the usual numbers of fertile
females in family tanks, weeding
the graluz tads with necessary
Gowachin abandon. On the surface
of it, the whole thing had assumed
a sense of the ordinary. They had
introduced him to intimate aspects
of their lives when he’d inquired,
answered his questions with disarm-
ing frankness.

McKie’s Jedrik -amplified aware-
ness saw this in a different light
now. The contests between
Gowachin phy turns stood out sharply.
And McKie knew now that he
had not asked the right questions,
that his teachers had been selected
by different rules than those re-
vealed to him at the time, that their
private instructions from their
Gowachin superiors contained
nuances of vital importance which
had been hidden from their student.

Poor Ceylang.

There were unsettling reflections.
They changed his understanding of
Gowachin honor, called into ques-
tion all of those inadvertent com-
parisons he’d made between
Gowachin forms and the mandate of

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

71

his own BuSab. His BuSab training
came in for the same questioning
examination.

Why . . . why . . . why . . . why

Law? Gowachin Law?

The value in having a BuSab
agent as a Legum of the Gowachin
had gained a new dimension.
McKie saw these matters now as
Jedrik had once seen through the
God Wall. There existed other
forces only dimly visible behind the
visible screen. An unseen power
structure lay out there — people who
seldom appeared in public, decision
makers whose slightest whim car-
ried terrible import for countless
worlds. Many places, many worlds
would be held in various degrees of
bondage. Dosadi had merely been
an extreme case for a special pur-
pose.

New bodies for old. Immortality.
And a training ground for people
who made terrible decisions.

But none of them would be as
completely Dosadi as this Jedrik-
amplified McKie.

He wondered where the Dosadi
decision had been made. Aritch had
not shared in it; that was obvious.
There were others behind Aritch —
Gowachin and non-Gowachin. A
shadowy power group existed. It
could have its seat on any world of
the ConSentiency. The power mer-
chants would have to meet occa-
sionally but not necessarily face to
face. And never in the public eye.
Their first rule was secrecy. They
would employ many people who

lived at the exposed fringes of their
power, people to carry out shadowy
commands . . . people such as
Aritch.

And Bildoon.

What had the PanSpechi hoped to
gain? A permanent hold on his
creche’s ego? Of course. That . . .
plus new bodies . . . Human
bodies, undoubtedly, and unmarked
by the stigmata of his PanSpechi
origins.

Bildoon ’s behavior . . . and
Aritch’s

appeared so transparent now. And
there' d be a Mrreg nearby creating
the currents in which Aritch swam.
Puppet leads to Puppet Master.

Mrreg.

That poor fool, Grinik, had re-
vealed more than he thought.

And Bildoon.

“We have two points of entry,”
McKie said.

She agreed.

“Bildoon and Mregg. The latter
is the more dangerous.”

A crease beside McKie ’s nose
began to itch. He scratched at it ab-
sently, grew conscious that some-
thing had changed. He stared
around, found himself standing at
the window and clothed in a female
body.

Damn! It happened so easily.

Jedrik stared up at him with his
own eyes. She spoke with his
voice, but the overtones were pure
Jedrik. They both found this amus-
ing.

"The powers of your BuSab.”

72

GALAXY

He understood.

“Yes, the watchdogs of justice.”

“Where were the watchdogs
when my ancestors were lured into
this Dosadi trap?”

“Watchdogs of justice, very
dangerous role,” he agreed.

“You know our feelings of out-
rage,” she said.

“And I know what it is to have
loving parents.”

“Remember that when you talk
to Bildoon."

Once more, McKie found himself
on the bed, his old familiar body
around him.

Presently, he felt the mental ten-
drils of a Taprisiot call, sensed Bil-
doon's awareness in contact with
him. McKie wasted no time. The
shadow forces were taking the bait.

“I have located Dosadi. The
issue will come to the Courtarena.
No doubt of that. I want you to
make the preliminary arrangements.
Inform the High Magister Aritch
that I make the formal imposition of
the Legum. One member of the judi-
cial panel must be a Gowachin
from Dosadi. I have a particular
Gowachin in mind. His name is
Broey.”

“Where are you?”

“On Tandaloor.”

“Is that possible?”

McKic masked his sadness. Ahh ,
Bildoon, how easily you are read.

“Dosadi is temporarily out of
danger. I have taken certain re-
taliatory precautions.”

McKie broke the contact.

Jedrik spoke in a musing voice.

“Ohh, the perturbations we
spread.”

McKie had no time for reflec-
tions.

“Broey will need help, a support
team, an extremely reliable troop
which I want you to select for
him.”

“Yes, and what of Gar and
Tria?”

“Let them run free. Broey will
pick them up later.”

Communal/managed economics have
always been more destructive of their
societies than those driven by greed.
This is whot Dosadi says: Greed sets
its own limits, is self -regulating.

— The Dosadi Anolysis/BuSab Text

McKie looked around the Legum
office they’d assigned him. Af-
ternoon smells from Tandaloor’s
fern jungles came in an open win-
dow. A low barrier separated him
from the Courtarena with its ranks
of seats all around. His office and
adjoining quarters were small but
fitted with all requisite linkages to
libraries and the infrastructure to
summon witnesses and experts. It
was a green-walled space so decep-
tively ordinary that its like had be-
guiled more than one non -Gowachin
into believing he knew how to per-
form here. But these quarters rep-

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

73

resented a deceptive surface riding
on Gowachin currents. No matter
that the Consentient Pact modified
what the Gowachin might do here,
this was Tandaloor and the forms of
the frog people dominated.

Seating himself at the single table
in the office space, McKie felt the
chairdog adjust itself beneath him.
It was good to have a chairdog
again after Dosadi’s unrelenting
furniture. He flipped a toggle and
addressed the Gowachin face which
appeared on the screen inset into his
table.

“I require testimony from those
who made the actual decision to set
up the Dosadi experiment. Are you
prepared to meet this request?”

“Do you have the names of these
people?”

Did this fool think he was going
to blurt out: “Mrreg?”

“If you force me to it,” McKie
warned, “I will bind Aritch to the
Law and extract the names from
him.”

This had no apparent effect on
the Gowachin. He addressed McKie
by name and title, adding:

“I leave the formalities to you.
Any witness I summon must have a
name.”

McKie suppressed a smile. Sus-
picions confirmed. This was a fact
which the watchful Gowachin in the
screen was late recognizing. Some-
one else had read the interchange
correctly, however. Another, older,
Gowachin face replaced the first
one on the screen.

“What 're you doing, McKie?”

“Determining how I will proceed
with this case.”

“You will proceed as a Legum of
the Gowachin Bar.”

“Precisely."

McKie waited.

The Gowachin peered narrowly at
him from the screen.

“Jedrik?”

“You arc speaking to Jorj X.
McKie, a Legum of the Gowachin
Bar.”

Belatedly, the older Gowachin
saw something of the way the
Dosadi experience had changed
McKie.

“Do you wish me to place you in
contact with Aritch?”

McKie shook his head. They
were so damned obvious, these un-
derlings.

“Aritch didn’t make the Dosadi
decision. Aritch was chosen to take
the blow if it came to that. I will
accept nothing less than the one
who made that ultimate decision
which launched the Dosadi experi-
ment.”

The Gowachin stared at him
coldly, then:

“One moment, I will see what I
can do.”

The screen went blank, but the
audio remained. McKie heard the
voices.

“Hello . . .Yes, I’m sorry to
interrupt at this time.”

“What is it?”

That was a deep and arrogant
Gowachin voice, full of annoyance

74

GALAXY

at the interruption. It was also an
accent which a Dosadi could recog-
nize in spite of the carefully over-
laid masking tones. Here was one
who’d used Dosadi.

The voice of the older Gowachin
from McKie’s screen continued:

“The Legum bound to Aritch has
come up with a sensitive line of
questioning. He wishes to speak to
you.”

“To me? But I am preparing for
Laupuk. ’ ’

MeKje had no idea what Laupuk
might be, but it opened a new win-
dow on the Gowachin for him. Here
was a glimpse of the rarified strata
which had been concealed from him
all of those years. This tiny glimpse
confirmed him in the course he'd
chosen.

“He is listening to us at this
time.”

“Listening . . . why?”

The tone carried threats, but the
Gowachin who’d intercepted McKic's
demands went on unwavering:

"To save explanations. It's clear
that he’ll accept nothing less than
speaking to you. This caller is
McKie, but . . .”

“Yes?”

“You will understand.”

“I presume you have interpreted
things correctly. Very well. Put him
on.”

McKie’s screen flickered, re-
vealed a wide view of a Gowachin
room such as he’d never before
seen. A far wall held spears and
cutting weapons, streamers of color-

ful pennants, glistening rocks, or-
nate carvings in a shiny black sub-
stance. All of this was backdrop for
a semi-reclining chairdog occupied
by an aged Gowachin who sat
spraddle -legged being annointed by
two younger Gowachin males. The
attendants poured a thick, golden
substance onto the aged Gowachin
from green crystal flasks. The flasks
were of a spiral design. The con-
tents were gently massaged into the
Gowachin’s skin. The old
Gowachin glistened with the stuff
and, when he blinked — no phylum
tatoos.

“As you can see,” he said, “I’m
being prepared for . .

He broke off, recognizing that he
spoke to a non-Gowachin. Cer-
tainly, he’d known this. It was a
slow reaction for a Dosadi.

“This is a mistake,” he said.
“Indeed.” McKie nodded pleas-
antly. “Your name?”

The old Gowachin scowled at this
gaucherie, then chuckled.

“lam called Mrreg.”

As McKie had suspected. And
why would a Tandaloor Gowachin
assume the name, no, the title of
the mythical monster who’d imbued
the frog people with a drive toward
savage testing? The implications
went far beyond (his planet, colored
Dosadi.

“You made the decision for the
Dosadi experiment?”

“Someone had to make it.”

That was not a substantive an-
swer and McKie decided to take it

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

75

to issue. “You are not doing me
any favors! I now know what it
means to be a Legum of the
Gowachin Bar and I intend to em-
ploy my powers to their limits.”

It was as (hough McKie had
worked some odd magic which
froze the scene on his screen. The
two attendants stopped pouring un-
gent but did not look toward the
pickup viewer which was recording
their actions for McKie. As for
Mrreg, he sat utterly still, his eyes
fixed unblinking upon McKie.

McKie waited.

Presently, Mrreg turned to the at-
tendant on his left.

“Please continue. There is little
time.”

McKie took (his as (hough spo-
ken to himself.

“You’re my client. Why did you
send a proxy?”

Mrreg continued to study McKie.

“I see what Ekris meant.” Then,
more briskly: “Well, McKie, I fol-
lowed your career with interest. It
now appears I did not follow you
closely enough. Perhaps if we had
not ...”

He left the thought incomplete.

McKie picked up on this.

“It was inevitable that I escape
from Dosadi.”

“Perhaps."

The attendants finished their
work, departed, taking the oddly
shaped crystal flasks with them.

“Answer my question,” McKie
said.

“I am not required to answer

your question,” Mrreg countered.

“Then 1 withdraw from this
case.”

Mrreg hunched forward in sudden
alarm. “You cannot! Aritch
isn’t . . .”

“I have no dealings with Aritch.
My client is that Gowachin who
made the Dosadi decision.”

“You are engaging in strange be-
havior for a Legum . . . Yes, bring
it.” This last was addressed to
someone offscreen. Another atten-
dant appeared carrying a white gar-
ment shaped somewhat like a long
apron with sleeves. The attendant
proceeded to put this onto Mrreg,
who ignored him, concentrating on
McKie.

“Do you have any idea what
you’re doing, McKie?”

“Preparing to act for my client.”

“I see. Who told you about
me?”

McKie shook his head.

“Did you really believe me un-
able to detect your presence or
interpret the implications of what
my own senses tell me?”

McKie saw that (he Gowachin
failed to see beneath the surface
taunting. Mrreg turned to the atten-
dant who was tying a green ribbon
at (he back of the apron. The old
Gowachin had to lean forward for
this. “A little tighter,” he said.

The attendant reded the ribbon.

Addressing McKie, Mrreg said:
“Please forgive the distraction. This
must proceed at its own pace.”

McKie absorbed (his, assessed it

76,

GALAXY

Dosadi fashion. He could see the
makings of an important Gowachin
ritual here, but it was a new one to
him. No matter. That could wait.
He continued speaking, probing this
Mrreg.

“When you found your own
peculiar uses for Dosadi ..."

“Peculiar? It’s a universal moti-
vation, McKie, that one tries to re-
duce the competition.” .

“Did you assess the price cor-
rectly, the price you might be asked
to pay?”

“Oh, yes. I knew what I might
have to pay.”

There was a clear tone of resigna-
tion in the Gowachin ’s voice, a rare
tone for his species. McKie hesi-
tated. The attendant who'd brought
the apron left the room, never once
glancing in McKie ’s direction, al-
though there had to be a screen to
show whatever Mrreg saw of his
caller.

“You wonder why I sent a proxy
to hire the Legum?” Mrreg asked.

“Why Aritch?”

“Because he’s a candidate
for . . .greater responsibilities. You
know, McKie, you astonish me.
Undoubtedly you know what 1
could have done to you for your
impertinence, yet that doesn't deter
you.”

This revealed more than Mneg
might have intended, but he re-
mained unaware (or uncaring) of
what McKie saw. For his part,
McKie maintained a bland exterior,
as blank as that of any Dosadi.

“I have a single purpose,”
McKie said. “Not even my client
will sway me from it.”

“The function of a Legum,”
Mrreg said.

The attendant of the white apron
returned with an unsheathed blade.
McKie glimpsed a jeweled handle
and glittering sweep of cutting edge
about twenty centimeters long. The
blade curved back upon itself in a
tight arc at the tip. The attendant,
his back to McKie, stood 1 facing
Mrreg. The blade no longer was
visible.

Mrreg, his left side partly
obscured from McKie by the atten-
dant, leaned to the right and peered
up at the screen through which he
watched McKie.

“You’ve never been apprised of
the ceremony we call Laupuk. It’s
very important and we’ve been re-
miss in leaving this out of your
education. Laupuk was essential be-
fore such a . . . project as Dosadi
could be set in motion. Try to un-
derstand this ritual. It will help you
prepare your case.”

“What was your Phylum?”
“That’s no longer important
but . . . very well. It was Great
Awakening. I was High Magister
for two decades before we made the
Dosadi decision.”

“How many Rim bodies have
you used up?”

“My final one. That, too, is no
longer important. Tel! me, McKie,
when did you suspect Aritch was
only a proxy?"

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

77

“When I realized that not all
Gowachin were bom Gowachin. ’’

“But Aritch ...”

“Ahh, yes: Aritch aspires to
greater responsibilities.”

“Yes ... of course. I see. The
Dosadi decision had to go far be-
yond a few phylums or a single
species. There had to be a . . .1 be-
lieve you Humans call it a 'High
Command.' Yes, that would’ve be-
come obvious to one as alert as you
now appear. Your many marriages
deceived us, 1 think. Was that de-
liberate?”

Secure behind his Dosadi mask,
McKie decided to lie.

“Yes.”

“Ahhhhhhhhh.”

Mrreg seemed to shrivel into
himself, but rallied.

“I see. We were made to believe
you some kind of diletante with
perverted emotions. It'd be judged a
flaw which we could exploit. Then
there’s another High Command and
we never suspected. ”

It all came out swiftly, revealing
the wheels within wheels which
ruled Mrreg’s view of the ConSen-
tient universe. McKie marvelled at
how much more was said than the
bare words. This one had been a
long time away from Dosadi and
had not been bom there . . .but
there were pressures on Mrreg now
forcing him to the limits of what
he’d learned on Dosadi.

McKie did not interrupt.

“Wc didn’t expect you to pene-
trate Aritch’ s role, but that was not

78

our intent . . .as you know. I pre-
sume ...”

Whatever Mrreg presumed, he
decided not to say it, musing aloud
instead.

“One might almost believe you
were born on Dosadi.”

McKie remained silent, allowing
the fear in that conjecture to fill
Mrreg’s consciousness.

Presently, Mrreg asked: “Do you
blame all Gowachin?”

Still, McKie remained silent.

Mrreg became agitated.

“We are a government of sorts,
my High Command. People can be
induced not to question a govern-
ment.”

McKie decided to press this
nerve.

“Governments always commit
their entire populations when the
demands grow heavy enough. By
their passive acceptance, these
populations become accessories to
whatever is done in their name."

“You’ve provided free use of
jumpdoors for the Dosadi?”

McKie nodded. “The Calebans
are aware of their obligation. Jedrik
has been busy instructing her com-
patriots."

“You think to loose the Dosadi
upon the ConSentiency and hunt
down my High Command? Have a
care, McKie. I warn you not to
abandon your duties as a Legum or
to tum your back on Aritch.”

McKie continued silent.

“Don’t make that error, McKie.
Aritch is your client. Through him

GALAXY

you represent all Gowachin.”

“A Legum requires a responsible
client,” McKie said. “Not a proxy,
but a client whose acts are brought
into question by the case tried.”

Mneg revealed Gowachin signs
of deep concern.

“Hear me, McKie. I haven’t
much time.”

In a sudden rush of apprehension,
McKie focused on the attendant
with the blade who stood there
partly obscuring the seated
Gowachin. Mneg spoke in a swift
spill of words.

“By our standards, McKie, you
are not yet very well educated in
Gowachin necessities. That was our
error. And now your . . .impetuos-
ity has put you into a position
which is about to become untena-
ble.”

The attendant shifted slightly,
arms moving up. McKie glimpsed
the blade tip at the attendant’s right
shoulder.

“Gowachin don’t have families
as do Humans or even Wreaves,”
Mneg said. “We have graduated
advancement into groups which
hold more and more responsibility
for those beneath them. This was
the pattern adopted by our High
Command. What you see as a
Gowachin family is only a breeding
group with its own limited rules.
With each step up in responsibility
goes a requirement that we pay an
increasing price for failure. You ask
if I know the price? Ahhh, McKie.
The breeding male Gowachin makes

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THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

79

sure that only the swiftest, most
alert of his tads survive. A Magister
upholds the forms of the Law. The
High Command answers to
a . . .Mrreg. You see? And a Mrreg
must make only the best decisions.
No failures, Thus . . . Laupuk.”

As he spoke the final word, the
blade in the attendant's hands
flashed out and around in a shim-
mering arc. It caught the seated
Gowachin at the neck. Mrreg 's
head, neatly severed, was caught in
the loop at the blade's tip, lifted
high, then lowered onto the white
apron which now was splashed with
green gore.

The scene blanked out, was re-
placed by the Gowachin who had
connected McKie with Mrreg.

“Aritch wishes to consult his
Legum," the Gowachin said.

in o changing universe, only a chang-
ing species can hope to be immortal
and then only if its eggs are nurtured
in widely scattered environments. This
predicts a wealth of unique
individuals.

— INSIGHTS (a glimpse of eorly
Human philosophy), BuSab Text

Jedrik made contact with McKie
while he waited for the arrival of
Aritch and Ceylang. He had been
staring absently at the ceiling,
evaluating in a profoundly Dosadi

way how to gain personal advantage
from the upcoming encounter with
them, when he felt the touch of her
mind on his.

McKie locked himsell nis
body.

“No transfer.”

“Of course not.”

It was a tiny thing, a subtle shad-
ing in the contact which could have
been overlooked by anyone with a
less accurate simulation model of
Jedrik.

“You’re angry with me,” McKie
said.

He projected irony, knew she’d
read this correctly.

When she responded, her anger
had been reduced to irritation. The
point was not the shading of emo-
tion, it was that she allowed such
emotion to reveal itself.

“You remind me of one of my
early lovers,” she said.

McKie thought of where Jedrik
was at this moment — safely rocked
in the flower-perfumed air of his
floating island on the planetary sea
of Tutalsee. How strange such an
environment must be for a Dosadi
. . .no threats, fruit which could
be picked and eaten without a
thought of poisons. The memories
she'd taken from him could coat the
island with familiarity, but her flesh
would continue to find that a
strange experience. His memories
— yes. The island would remind
her of all those wives he’d taken
to the honeymoon bowers of that
place.

GALAXY

McKie spoke from this aware-
ness.

“No doubt that early lover failed
to show sufficient appreciation of
your abilities outside the bed-

room, that is. Which one was

And he named several accurate
possibilities, lifting them from the
memories he’d taken from Jedrik.

Now, she laughed. He sensed the
untainted response, real humor and
unchecked.

McKie was reminded in his turn
of one of his early wives, and this
made him think of the breeding
situation from which Jedrik had
come — no confusions between a
choice for breeding mate and a
lover taken for the available enjoy-
ment of sex. One might even ac-
tively dislike the breeding mate.

Lovers . . .wives . . . What was
the difference except for the socially
imprinted conventions out of which
the roles arose? But Jedrik did re-
mind him of that one particular
woman and he explored his memo-
ry, wondering if it might help him
now in his relationship with Jedrik.
He'd been in his mid -thirties and
assigned to one of his first personal
BuSab cases, sent out with no old-
timer to monitor and instruct him.
The youngest Human agent in the
Bureau’s history ever to be released
on his own, so it was rumored. The
planet had been one of the Ylir
group, very much unlike anything
in McKie’ s previous experience: an
ingrown place with deep entry ways

in all of the houses and an oppres-
sive silence all around. No animals,
no birds, no insects . . .just that
awesome Silence within which a
fanatic religion was reported form-
ing. All conversations were low-
voiced and full of subtle intonations
which suggested an inner communi-
cation peculiar to Ylir and somehow
making sport with all outsiders not
privy to their private code. Very
like Dosadi in this.

His wife of the moment, safely
ensconced on Tutalsee, had been
quite the opposite: gregarious, spor-
tive, noisy.

Something about that Ylir case
had sent McKie back to this wife
with a sharpened awareness of her
needs. The marriage had gone well
for a long time, longer than any of
the others. And he saw now why
Jedrik reminded him of that one:
they both protected themselves with
a tough armor of femininity, but
were extremely vulnerable behind
that facade. When the armor col-
lapsed, it collapsed totally. This re-
alization puzzled McKie because he
read his own reaction clearly: he
was frightened.

In the eyeblink this evaluation
took, Jedrik read him:

“We have not left Dosadi. We’ve
taken it with us.”

So that was why she’d made this
contact, to be certain he mixed this
datum into his evaluations. McKie
looked out the open window. It
would be dusk soon here on Tan-
daloor. The Gowachin home planet

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

81

was a place which had defied
change for thousands of standard
years. In some respects, it was a
backwater.

The ConSemiency will never be
the same.

The tiny trickle of Dosadi which
Aritch’s people had hoped to cut off
was now a roaring cataract. The
people of Dosadi would insinuate
themselves into niche after niche of
ConSentient civilization. What
could resist even the lowliest
Dosadi? Laws would change. Rela-
tionships would assume profound
and subtle differences. Everything
from die most casual friendship to
the most complex business relation-
ship would take on some Dosadi
character.

McKie recalled Aritch’s parting
question as they’d sent him to the
jumpdoor which would put him on
Dosadi.

“Ask yourself if there might be a
price too high to pay for the Dosadi
lesson.’’

That had been McKie’ s first clue
to Aritch's actual motives and the
word lesson had bothered him, but
he’d missed the implications. With
some embarrassment, McKie re-
called his glib answer to Aritch’s
question:

“It depends on the lesson.’’

True, but how blind he’d been to
things any Dosadi would have seen.
How ignorant. Now, he indicated to
Jedrik that he understood why she’d
called such things to his attention.

“Aritch didn’t look much beyond

the uses of outrage and injus-
tice . . .”

“And how to turn such things to
personal advantage.’’

She was right, of course. McKie
stared out at the gathering dusk.
Yes, the species tried to make
everything its own. If the species
failed, then forces beyond it moved
in, and so on, ad infinitum.

I do what l do.

He recalled those words with a
shudder, felt Jedrik recoil. But she
was proof even against this.

“What powers your ConSen-
tiency had.”

Past tense, right. And not our
ConSentiency because that already
was a thing of the past. Besides
... she was Dosadi.

“And the illusions of power,”
she said.

He saw at last what she was em-
phasizing and her own shared
memories in his mind made the les-
son doubly impressive. She’d
known precisely what McKie ’s per-
sonal ego-focus might overlook.
Yet, this was one of the glues
which held the Conscntiency to-
gether.

“Who can imagine himself im-
mune from any retaliation?” he
quoted.

It was right out of the BuSab
Manual.

. Jedrik made no response.

McKie needed no more emphasis
from her now. The lesson of history
was clear. Violence bred violence.
If this violence got out of hand, it

GALAXY

ran a course depressing in its repeti-
tive pattern. More often than not,
that course was deadly to the inno-
cent, the so-called ‘enlistment
phase. ’ The ex -innocents ignited more
violence and more violence until
either reason prevailed or all was
destroyed. There was a sufficient
number of cinder blocks which once
had been planets to make the lesson
clear. Dosadi had come within a
hair of joining that uninhabited, un-
inhabitable list.

Before breaking contact, Jedrik
had another point to make.

“You recall that in those final
days, Broey increased the rations
for his Human auxiliaries, his way
of saying to them: ‘You'll be turned
out onto the Rim soon to fend for
yourselves.”

“A Dosadi way of saying that.”

"Correct. We always held that
thought in reserve: That we should
breed in such numbers that some
would survive no matter what hap-
pened. We would thus begin pro-
ducing species which could sur-
vive there without the city of
Chu ... or any other city designed
solely to produce non -poisonous
foods.”

“But there’s always a bigger
force waiting in the wings.”

"Make sure Aritch understands
that.”

Choose containable violence when vio-
lence cannot be avoided. Better this

than epidemic violence.

— Lessons of Choice,
The BuSab Manual

The senior attendant of the Court-
arena, a squat and dignified
Gowachin of the Assumptive
Phylum, confronted McKie at the
arena door with a confession:

“I have delayed informing you
that some of your witnesses have
been excluded by Prosecution chal-
lenge.”

The attendant, whose name was
Darak, gave a Gowachin shrug,
waited.

McKie glanced beyond the atten-
dant at the truncated oval of the
arena entrance which framed a
lower section of the audience seats.
The seats were filled. He had ex-
pected some such challenge for the
first morning session of (he trial,
saw Darak’s words as a vital revela-
tion. They were accepting his gam-
bit. Darak had signalled -a risky line
of attack by those who guided
Ceylang’s performance. They ex-
pected McKie to protest. He
glanced back at Aritch who stood
quietly submissive three steps be-
hind his Legum. Aritch gave every
appearance of having resigned him-
self to the arena’s conditions.

‘ 'The forms must be obeyed.

Beneath that appearance lay the
hoary traditions of Gowachin
Law — The guilty are innocent.
Governments always do evil.

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

83

Legalists put their own interests
first. Defense and prosecution are
brother and sister . . . Suspect
everything.

Aritch ’$ Legum controlled the ini-
tial posture and McKie had chosen
defense. It hadn’t surprised him to
be told that Ceylang would prose-
cute. McKie had countered by in-
sisting that Broey sit on a judicial
panel which would be limited to
three members. This had caused a
delay during which Bildoon had
called McKie, probing for any be-
trayal. Bildoon '$ approach had been
so obvious that McKie had at first
suspected a feint within a feint.

“McKie, the Gowachin fear that
you have a Caleban at your com-
mand. That’s a force which
they ...”

“The more they fear the better.”

McKie had stared back at the
screen-framed face of Bildoon, ob-
serving the signs of strain. Jedrik
was right: the non-Dosadi were very
easy to read.

“But I’m told you left this
Dosadi in spite of a Caleban con-
tract which prohibited ...”

“Let them wony. Good for
them.”

McKie watched Bildoon intently
without betraying a single emotion.
No doubt there were others monitor-
ing this exchange. Let them begin
to see what they faced. Puppet Bil-
doon was not about to uncover what
those shadowy forces wanted. They
had Bildoon here on Tandaloor,
though, and this told McKie an es-

sential fact. The PanSpechi chief of
BuSab was being offered as bait.
This was precisely the response
McKie sought.

Bildoon had ended the call with-
out achieving his purpose. McKie
had nibbled only enough to insure
that Bildoon would be offered again
as a bait. And the puppet masters
still feared that McKie had a Cale-
ban at his beck and call.

No doubt the puppet masters had
tried to question their God Wall
Caleban. McKie hid a smile, think-
ing how that conversation must
have gone. The Caleban had only to
quote the letter of the contract and
if the questioners became accusatory
the Caleban would respond with
anger, ending the exchange. And
the Caleban ’s words would be so
filled with terms subject to ambigu-
ous translation that the puppet mas-
ters would never be certain of what
they heard.

As he stared at the patiently wait-
ing Darak, McKie saw that they had
a problem, those shadowy figures
behind Aritch. Laupuk had removed
Mrreg from their councils and his
advice would have been valuable
now. McKie had deduced that the
correct reference was “The Mrreg”
and that Aritch headed the list of
possible successors. Aritch might be
Dosadi-trained, but he was not
Dosadi -bom. There was a lesson in
. this that the entire ConSentiency
would soon team.

And Broey as a judge in this case
remained an unchangeable fact.

84

GALAXY

Broey was Dosadi-bom. The Cale-
ban contract had kept Broey on his
poison planet but it had not limited
him to a Gowachin body, Broey
knew what it was to be both Human
and Gowachin. Broey knew about
the Pcharkys and their use by those
who'd held Dosadi in bondage. And
Broey was now Gowachin. The
forces opposing McKie dared not
name another Gowachin judge.
They must choose from the other
species. They had an interesting
quandry. And without a Caleban as-
sistant, there were no more Pchar-
kys to be had on Dosadi. The most
valuable coin the puppet masters
had to offer was lost to them.
They’d be desperate. Some of the
older ones would be very desperate.

Footsteps sounded around the
tum of the corridor behind Aritch.
McKie glanced back, saw Ccylang
come into view with her attendants.
McKie counted no less than twenty
leading Legums around her. They
were out in force. Not only
Gowachin pride and integrity but
their sacred view of Law stood at
issue. And the desperate ones stood
behind them, goading. McKie could
almost see those shadowy figures in
the shape of this entourage.

Ceylang, he saw, wore the black
robes and white-striped hood of
Leg urn Prosecutor, but she'd thrown
back the hood to free her mandi-
bles. McKie detected tension in her
movements.

She gave no sign of recognition
but McKie saw her through Dosadi

eyes.

/ frighten her. And she’s right.

Turning to address the waiting at-
tendant and speaking loudly to
make sure that the approaching
group heard, McKie said:

“Every law must be tested. I ac-
cept that you* have given me formal
announcement of a limit on my de-
fense.”

Darak, expecting outraged protest
and a demand for a list of the
excluded witnesses, showed obvious
confusion.

‘ ‘Formal an nouncement? ’ '

Ceylang and entourage came to a
stop behind Aritch.

McKie went on in the same loud
voice:

“We stand here within the sphere
of the Courtarena. All matters con-
cerning a dispute in the arena arc
formal in this place.”

The attendant glanced at Ceylang,
seeking help. This response
threatened him. Darak, hoping
someday to be a High Magister,
should now be recognizing his in-
adequacies. He would never make it
in the politics of the Gowachin
Phyla, especially not in the coming
Dosadi age.

McKie explained as though to a
neophyte:

“Information to be verified by
my witnesses is known to me in its
entirety. I will present the evidence
myself.”

Ceylang, having stooped to hear
a low- voiced comment from one of
her Gowachin advisors, showed

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

85

surprise at this. She raised one of
her ropey tendrils, called: “I pro-
test. The Defense Legum cannot
give ...”

“How can you protest?” McKie
interrupted. “We stand here before
no judicial panel empowered to rule
on any protest.”

“I make formal protest!”
Ceylang insisted, ignoring an ad-
visor on her right who was tugging
at her sleeve.

McKie permitted himself a cold
smile.

“Very well. Then we must call
Darak into the arena as witness, he
being the only party present who is
outside our dispute.”

The edges of Aritch’s jaws came
down in a Gowachin grimace.

“At the end, I wanted them not
to go with the Wreave,” he said.
"They cannot say they came here
unwarned.”

Too late, Ceylang saw what had
happened. McKie would be able to
question Darak on the challenges to
the witnesses. Some of those chal-
lenges were certain to be over-
turned. At the very least, McKie
would know who the Prosecution
feared. He would know it in time to
act upon it. There would be no de-
lays valuable to Prosecution. Ten-
sion, fear and pride had made
Ceylang act precipitately. Aritch
had been right to warn them but
they counted on McKie' $ fear of the
interlocked Wreave triads. Let them
count. Let them blunt their aware-
ness on that and on a useless con-

cern over the excluded witnesses.

McKie motioned Darak through
the doorway into the arena, heard
him utter an oath. The reason be-
came apparent as McKie pressed
through in the crowded surge of the
Prosecutor’s party. The instruments
of Truth -by-Pain had been arrayed
on their ancient rack below the
judges. Seldom brought out of their
wrappings even for display to visit-
ing dignitaries these days, the in-
struments had not been employed in
the arena within the memory of a
living witness. McKie had expected
this display. It was obvious that
Darak and Ceylang had not. It was
interesting to note the members of
Ceylang’s entourage who were
watching for McKie ’s response.

He gave them a grin of satisfac-
tion.

McKie turned his attention to the
judicial panel. They had given him
Broey. The ConSentiency, acting
through BuSab, held the right of
one appointment. Their choice de-
lighted McKie. Bait, indeed! Bil-
doon occupied the seat on Broey ’s
right. The PanSpechi chief of
bureau sat there all bland and re-
served in his unfamiliar Gowachin
robes of water green. Bildoon’s fa-
ceted eyes glittered in the harsh
arena lighting. The third judge had
to be the Gowachin choice undoubt-
edly maneuvered (as Bildoon had
been) by the puppet masters. It was
a Human and McKie, recognizing
him, missed a step, recovered his
balance with a visible effort.

GALAXY

What were they doing?

The third judge was named
Mordes Parando, a noted challenger
of BuSab actions. He wanted BuSab
eliminated — either outright or by
removing some, of the bureau's key
powers. He came from the planet
Lirat, which provided McKie with
no surprises. Lirat was a natural
cover for the shadowy forces. It
was a place of enormous wealth and
great private estates guarded by
their own security forces. Parando
was a man of somewhat superficial
manners which might conceal a
genuine sophisticate, knowledgeable
and erudite, or a completely ruthless
autocrat of Brocy's stamp. He was
certainly Dosadi-trained. And his
features bore the look of the Dosadi
Rim.

There was one more fact about
Parando which no one outside Lirat
was supposed to know. McKie had
come upon it quite by chance while
investigating a Palenki who’d been
an estate guard on Lirat. The turtle-
like Palenki were notoriously dull,
employed chiefly as muscle. This
one had been uncommonly obser-
vant.

“Parando makes advice on
Gowachin Law.”

This had been responsive to a
question about Parando 's relation-
ship with the estate guard being in-
vestigated. McKie, not seeing a
connection between question and
answer, had not pursued the matter
but had tucked this datum away for
future investigation. He had been

mildly interested at the time because
of the rumored existence of a
legalist enclave on Lirat and such
enclaves had been known to test the
limits of legality.

The people behind Aritch would
expect McKie to recognize Parando.
Would they expect Parando to be
recognized as a legalist? They were
certain to know the danger of put-
ting Parando on a Gowachin bench.
Professional legalists were abso-
lutely prohibited from Gowachin
judicial service.

"Let the people judge."

Why would they need a legalist
here? Or were they expecting
McKie to recognize the Rim origins
of Parando' s body? Were they
warning McKie not to raise that
issue here? Body exchange and the
implications of immortality rep-
resented a box of snakes no one
wanted to open. And the possibility
of one species spying on
another . . . There was fragmenta-
tion of the ConSentiency latent in
this case. More ways than one.

If I challenge Parando, his re-
placement may be more dangerous.
If I expose him as a legalist after
the trial starts . , . Could they ex-
pect me to do that? Let us explore

Knowing he was watched by
countless eyes, McKie swept his
gaze around the arena. Above the
soft green absorbent oval where he
stood were rank on rank of benches,
every seat occupied. Muted morning
light from the domed transluscent

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

87

ceiling illuminated rows of Humans,
Gowachin, Palenki, Sobarips . . .
McKie identified a cluster of ferret
Wreaves just above the arena,
limber thin with a sinuous flexing in
every movement. They would bear
watching. But every species and
faction in the ConSentiency would
be represented here. Those who
could not come in person would
watch these proceedings via the glit-
tering transmitter eyes which looked
down from the ceiling’s edges.

Now, McKie looked to the right
at the witness pen set into the wall
beneath the ranked benches. He
identified every witness he’d called,
even the challenged ones. The
forms were being obeyed. While the
ConSentient Covenant required cer-
tain modifications here, this arena
was still dominated by Gowachin
Law. To accent that, the blue metal
box from the Running Phylum oc-
cupied the honor place on the bench
in front of the judicial panel.

Who will taste the knife here?

Protocol demanded that Pro-
secutor and Defense approach to a
point beneath the judges, abase
themselves and calf out acceptance
of the arena’s conditions. The Pro-
secutor’s party, however, was in
disarray. Two of Ceylang’s advisors
were whispering excited advice to
her.

The members of the judicial
panel conferred, glancing at the
scene below them. They could not
act formally until the obeisance.

McKic passed a glance across the

panel, absorbed Broey’s posture.
The Dosadi Gowachin ’$ enlightened
greed was like an anchor point. It
was like Gowachin Law, change-
able only on the surface. And Brocy
was but the tip of the Dosadi advis-
ory group which Jedrik had ap-
proved.

Holding his arms extended to the
sides, McKie marched forward,
abased himself face down on the
floor, stood and called out:

“I accept this arena as my friend.
The conditions here are my condi-
tions but Prosecution has defiled the
sacred traditions of this place. Does
the court give me leave to slay her
outright?”

There was an exclamation behind
him, the sound of running, the sud-
den flopping of a body onto the
arena’s matted floor. Ceylang could
not address the court before this
obeisance and she knew it. She and
the others now also knew something
else just as important — that McKie
was ready to slay her despite the
threat of Wreave vendetta.

In a breathless voice, Ceylang
called out her acceptance of the
arena’s conditions, then:

‘T protest this trick by Defense
Legum!”

McKie saw the stirring of
Gowachin in the audience. A trick?
Didn’t Ceylang know yet how the
Gowachin dearly loved legal tricks?

The members of the judicial
panel had been thoroughly briefed
on the surface demands of the
Gowachin forms, though it was

GALAXY

doubtful that Bildoon understood
sufficiently what went on beneath
those forms. The PanSpechi con-
firmed this now by leaning forward
to speak.

“Why does the senior attendant
of this court enter ahead of the
Legums?’ ’

McKie detected a fleeting smile
on Broey’s face, glanced back to
see Darak standing apart from the
prosecution throng, alone and
trembling.

McKie took one step forward.

“Will the court direct Darak to
the witness pen? He is here because
of a formal demand by the Pro-
secutor.”

“This is the senior attendant of
your Court,” Ceylang argued. “He
guards the door to . .

“Prosecution made formal protest
to a matter which occurred in the
presence of this attendant," McKie

said. “As an attendant, Darak

stands outside the conflicting inter-
ests. He is the only reliable wit-

Broey stirred, looked at Ceylang,
and McKie realized how strange the
Wreave must appear to a Dosadi.
This did not deter Broey, however.

“Did you protest?”

It was a direct question from the
bench. Ceylang was required to an-
swer. She looked to Bildoon for

help but he remained silent.

Parando also refused to help her.
She glanced at Darak. The terrified
attendant could not take his atten-
tion from the instruments of pain.

Perhaps he knew something specific
about their presence in the arena.

Ceylang tried to explain.

“When Defense Legum suggest-
ed an illegal ..."

“Did you protest?"

“But the . .

“This court decides on all mat-
ters of legality. Did you protest?”

“I did.”

It was forced out of her. A fit of
trembling passed over the slender
Wreave form.

Broey waved Darak to the wit-
ness pen, had to add a vocal order
when the frightened attendant failed
to understand. Darak almost ran to
the shelter of the pen.

Silence pervaded the arena. The
silence of the audience was an ex-
plosive thing. They sat poised in the
watching ovals, all of those species
and factions with their special fears.
By now, they'd heard many stories
and rumors. Jumpdoors had spread
the Dosadi emigres all across the
ConSentiency. Media representa-
tives had been excluded from
Dosadi and this court on the
Gowachin argument that they were
"prey to uninformed subjective
reactions,” but they would be
watching here through the transmit-
ter eyes at the ceiling.

McKie looked around at nothing
in particular but took in every de-
tail. There were more than three
judges in this arena and Ceylang
certainly must realize that.
Gowachin Law turned upon itself,
existing “only to be changed.” But

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

89

that watching multitude was quite
another matter. Ceylang must be
made to understand that she was a
sacrifice of the arena. Consentient
opinion stood over her like a heavy
sledge ready to smash down.

■It was Parando’s tum.

“Will opposing Legums make
their opening arguments now?”

‘‘We can’t proceed while a for-
mal protest is undecided,” McKic
said.

Parando understood. He glanced
at the audience, at the ceiling. His
actions were a direct signal:
Parando knew which judges really
decided here. To emphasize it, he
ran a hand from the front of his
neck down his chest, the unique
Rim Raiders' salute from Dosadi
signifying ‘Death before surrender.’
Subtle hints in the movement gave
McKie another datum: Parando was
a Gowaehin in a Human body.
They’d dared put two Gowaehin on
that panel!

With Dosadi insight, McKie saw
why they did this. They were pre-
pared to produce the Caleban con-
tract here. They were telling McKie
that they would expose the body-
exchange secret if he forced them to
it. All would sec that loophole in
the Caleban contract which confined
the Dosadi -bom but released outsid-
ers in Dosadi flesh.

They think I am really Jedrik in
this flesh!

Parando revealed even more. His
people intended to find the Jedrik
body and kill it, leaving this McKie

90

flesh forever in doubt. He could
protest his McKie identity all he
wanted. They had but to demand
that he prove it. Without the other
person . . . What had their God
Wall Caleban told them?

“He is McKie, she is McKie. He
is Jedrik, she is Jedrik.”

His mind in turmoil, McKie
wondered if he dared risk an im-
mediate mind contact with Jedrik.
Together, they’d already recognized
this danger. Jedrik had hidden her-
self on McKie's hideaway, a float-
ing island on Tutalsee. She was
there with a special Taprisiot con-
tract prohibiting unwanted calls
which might inadvertently reveal
her location.

The judges, led by Parando, were
acting, however, moving for an
immediate examination of Darak.
McKie forced himself to perform as
a Legum.

His career in ruins, the attendant
answered like an automaton. In the
end, McKie restored most of his
witnesses. There were two notable
exceptions: Grinik (that flawed
thread which might have led to The
Mrreg) and Stiggy. McKie was not
certain why they wanted to exclude
the Dosadi weapons genius who’d
transformed a BuSab wallet’s con-
tents into instruments of victory.
Was it that Stiggy had broken an
unbreakable code? That made sense
only if Prosecution intended to play
down the inherent Dosadi superior-
ity.

Still uncertain, McKie prepared
GALAXY

to retire and seek a way to avoid
Parando’s gambit but Ceylang ad-
dressed the bench.

“The issue of witnesses having
been introduced by Defense," she
said. “Prosecution wishes to
explore this issue. We note many
witnesses from Dosadi called by
Defense. There is a noteworthy
omission whose name has not yet
been introduced here. I refer to a
Human by the name of Jedrik. Pro-
secution wishes to call Keila Jedrik
as . .

“One moment!”

McKie searched his mind for the
forms of an acceptable escape. He
knew that his blurted protest had
revealed more than he wanted. But
they were moving faster than he’d
expected. Prosecution did not really
want Jedrik as a witness, not in a
Gowachin Courtarena where the
roles were never quite what they
appeared to non-Gowachin. This
was a plain message to McKic.

"We're going to find her and kill
her."

With Bildoon and Parando con-
curring, a jumpdoor was summoned
and Ceylang played her trump.

“Defense knows the whereabouts
of witness Keila Jedrik.”

They were forcing the question,
aware of the emotional bond be-
tween McKic and Jedrik. He had a
choice: argue that a personal rela-
tionship with the witness excluded
her. But Prosecution and all the
judges had to concur. They ob-
viously would not do this . . . not

yet. A harsh lock on his emotions,
McKie gave the jumpdoor instruc-
tions.

Presently, Jedrik stepped onto the
arena floor, faced the judges. She’d
been into the wardrobe at his bower
cottage and wore a yellow and
orange sarong which emphasized
her height and grace. Open brown
sandals protected her feet. There
was a flame red blossom at her left
ear. She managed to look exotic
and fragile.

Broey spoke for the judges.

“Do you have knowledge of the
issues at trial here?”

“What issues are at trial?”

She asked it with a childlike in-
nocence which did not even fool
Bildoon. They were forced to ex-
plain, however, because of those
other judges to whom every nuance
here was vital. She heard them out
in silence.

“An alleged experiment on a sen-
tient population confined to a planet
called Dosadi . . . lack of informed
consent by subject population
charged . . . accusations of conspi-
racy against certain Gowachin and
others not yet named ...”

Two fingers pressed to his eyes
in the guise of intense listening,
McKie made contact with Jedrik,
suggesting, conferring. They had to
find a way out of this trap! When
he looked up, he saw the suspicions
in Parando’s face: Which body,
which ego? McKie? Jedrik?

In the end, Ceylang hammered
home the private message, demand -

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

VI

ing whether Jedrik had “any per-
sonal relationship with Defense
Legum?”

Jedrik answered in a decidedly
un-Dosadi fashion.

“Why . . . yes. We are lovers.”

In itself, this was not enough to
exclude her from the arena unless
Prosecution and (he entire judicial
panel agreed. Ceylang proposed the
exclusion. Bildoon and Parando
were predictable in their agreement.
McKie waited for Broey.

“Agreed.”

Broey had a private compact with
the shadow forces then. Jedrik and
McKie had expected this but had
not anticipated the form confirma-
tion would take.

McKie asked for a recess until
the following morning.

With the most benign face on it,
this was granted. Broey announced
the decision, smiling down at Jed-
rik. It was a measure of McKie ’s
Dosadi conditioning that he could
not find it in himself to blame
Broey for wanting personal victory
over the person who had beaten him
on Dosadi.

Back in his quarters, Jedrik put a
hand on McKie’ s chest, spoke with
eyes lowered.

“Don't blame yourself, McKie.
This was inevitable. Those judges,
none of them, would’ve allowed
any protest from you before seeing
me in person on that arena floor.”

“I know.”

She looked up at him, smiling.

“Yes ... of course. How like

one person we are.”

For a time after that, (hey re-
viewed the assessment of the aides
chosen for Broey. Shared memories
etched away at minutae. Could any
choice be improved? Not one per-
son was changed — Human or
Gowachin. Ail of (hose advisors
and aides were Dosadi-born. They
could be depended upon to be loyal
to their origins, to their condition-
ing, to themselves individually. For
the task assigned to them, they were
the best available.

McKie brought it to a close.

“I can’t leave the immediate area
of the arena until the trial’s over.”

She knew that, but it needed say-
ing.

There was a small cell adjoining
his office, a bedog there, communi-
cations instruments, Human toilet
facilities. They delayed going into
the bedroom, turned to a low-key
argument over the advisability of a
body exchange. It was procrastina-
tion on both sides, outcome known
in advance. Familiar flesh was fam-
iliar flesh, less distracting. It gave
each of them an edge which they
dared not sacrifice. McKie could
play Jedrik and Jedrik could play
McKie, but that would be danger-
ous play now.

When they retired, it was to
make love, the most tender experi-
ence either had known. There was
no submission, only a giving, shar-
ing, an open exchange which tight-
ened McKie ’s throat with joy and
fear, sent Jedrik into a fit of un-

92

GALAXY

Dosadi sobbing.

When she’d recovered, she turned
to him on the bed, touched his right
check with a finger.

“McKie.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve never had to say this to
another person, but ...” She si-
Ienced his attempted interruption by
punching his shoulder, leaning up
on an elbow to look down at him. It
reminded McKie of their first night
together and he saw that she had
gone back into her Dosadi
shell . . . but there was something
else, a difference in the eyes.

“What is it?”

“Just that I love you. It’s a very
interesting feeling, especially when
you can admit it openly. How
odd.”

“Stay here with me.”

“We both know I can’t. There’s
no safe place here for either of
us . . . but the one who ...”
“Then let’s . . .

“We’ve already decided against
an exchange.”

"Where will you go?”

“Best you don't know.”

“If . . .”

“No! I wouldn’t be safe as a
witness; I’m not even safe at your
side. We both ...”

“Don’t go back to Dosadi.”
“Where is Dosadi? It’s the only
place where I could ever feel at
home, but Dosadi no longer ex-
ists.”

“I meant ...”

“I know.”

She sat up, hugged her knees, re-
vealing the sinewy muscles of her
shoulders and back. McKie studied
her, trying to fathom what it was
she hid in that Dosadi shell. Despite
the intimacy of their shared
memories, something about her
eluded him. It was as though he di-
dn't want to leant this thing. She
would flee and hide, of course,
but ... He listened carefully as she
began to speak in a far away voice.

“It’d be interesting to go back to
Dosadi someday. The differenc-
es . . .”

She looked over her shoulder at
him.

“There are those who fear we’ll
make over the ConSentiency in
Dosadi’s image. We’ll try, but the
result won’t be Dosadi. We’ll take
what we judge to be valuable, but
that’ll change Dosadi more than it
changes you. Your masses arc less
aleil, slower, less resourceful, but
you’re so numerous. In the end, the
ConSentiency will win, but it’ll no
longer be the ConSentiency. I won-
der what it’ll be when ...”

She laughed at her own musing,
shook her head.

“And there’s Broey. They’ll have
to deal with Broey and the team
we’ve given him. Broey Plus! Your
ConSentiency hasn’t the faintest
grasp of what we’ve loosed among,
them.”

“The predator in the flock.”

“To Broey, your people are like
the Rim — a natural resource.”

“But he has no Pcharkys.”

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

93

“Not yet.”

“I doubt if the Calebans ever
again will participate in . .

“There may be other ways. Look
how easy it is for us.”

“But we were printed upon each
other by . . .”

“Exactly! And they continue to
suspect that you’re in my body and
I’m in yours. Their entire experi-
ence precludes the free shift back
and forth, one body to
another ...”

“Or this other thing ...”

He caressed her mind.

“Yes! Broey won’t suspect until
too late what’s in store for him.
They’ll be a long time learning
there’s no way to sort you
from . . . me!”

This last was an exultant shout as
she turned and fell upon him. It was
a wild replay of their first night to-
gether. McKie abandoned himself to
it. There was no other choice, no
time for the mind to dwell on de-
pressing thoughts.

In the morning, he had to tap his
implanted amplifiers to bring his
awareness to the required pitch for
the arena. The process took a few
minutes while he dressed.

Jedrik moved softly with her own
preparations, straightened the bedog
and caressed its resilient surface.
She summoned a jumpdoor then,
held him with a lingering kiss. The
jumpdoor opened behind her as she
pushed away from him.

McKie smelled familiar flowers,
glimpsed the bowers of his Tutalsee

island before the door blinked out
of existence, hiding Jedrik and the
island from him. Tutalsee? The
moment of shocked understanding
delayed him. She’d counted on that!
He recovered, sent his mind leaping
after her.

I'll force an exchange! By the
Gods . . .

His mind met pain, consuming,
blinding pain. It was agony such as
he’d not even imagined could exist.

Jedrik !

His mind held an unconscious
Jedrik whose awareness had fled
from pain. The contact was so deli-
cate, like holding a newborn infant.
The slightest relaxation and he
knew he would lose her to ... He
felt that terrifying monster of the
first exchange hovering in the
background, but love and concern
armed him against fear.

Frantic, McKie held that tenuous
contact while he called a jumpdoor.
There was a small delay and when
the door opened, he saw through
the portal the black, twisted wrec-
kage which had been his bower is-
land.

A hot sun beat down on steaming
cinders. And in the background, a
warped metal object which might
have been one of Tutalsee’ s little
four-place flitters rolled over, gurg-
led and sank. The visible wreckage
said the destructive force had been
something like a pentrate, swift and
all-consuming. The water around
the island still bubbled with it.

Even while he watched, the is-

94

GALAXY

land began breaking up, its cinders
drifting apart on the tong, low
waves. A breeze flattened the
steaming smoke. Soon, there 'd be
nothing to show that beauty had
floated here. With a pentrate, there
would be nothing to recov-
er .. . not even bodies to . . .

He hesitated, still holding his
fragile grasp on Jedrik's uncon-
scious presence. The pain was only
a memory now. Was it really Jedrik
in his awareness, or only his re-
membered imprint of her? He tried
to awaken the sleeping presence,
failed. But small threads of memory
emerged and he saw that the de-
struction had been Jedrik's doing,
response to attack. The attackers
had wanted a live hostage. They
hadn't anticipated that violent, un-
mistakable message.

“You won’t hold me over
McKie’s head!”

But if there were no bodies . . .

Again, he tried to awaken
that unconscious presence. Her
memories were there, but she re-
mained dormant. The effort
strengthened his grip upon her pres-
ence, though. And he told himself it
had to be Jedrik or he wouldn’t
know what had happened on the
bower island.

Once more, he searched the
empty water. Nothing. A pentrate
would’ve tom and battered every-
thing around it. Shards of metal,
flesh reduced to scattered cin-
ders . . .

She's dead. She has to be dead.

A pentrate . . .

But that familiar presence lay
slumbering in his mind.

The door clacker interrupted his
reverie. McKic released the
jumpdoor, turned to look through
the bedside viewer at the scene out-
side his Legum quarters. The ex-
pected deputation had arrived. Con-
fident, the puppet masters were
moving even before confirmation of
their Tutalsee gambit. They could
not possibly know yet what McKie
knew. There could be no jumpdoor
or any other thread connecting this
group to Tutalsee.

McKie studied them carefully,
keeping a bridle on his rage. There
were eight of them, so contained,
so well schooled in Dosadi self-
control. So transparent to a Jedrik-
amplified McKie. They were four
Humans and four Cowachin. Over-
confident. Jedrik had seen to that by
leaving no survivors.

Again, McKie tried to awaken
that unconscious presence. She
would not respond.

Have / only built her out of my
memories ?

There was no time for such
speculation. Jedrik had made her
choice on Tutalsee. He had other
choices to make here and now — for
both of them. That ghostly presence
locked in his mind would have to
wait.

McKie punched the com-
municator which linked him to
Broey, gave the agreed upon signal.

“It’s time.”

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

95

He composed himself then, went
to the door.

They’d sent no underlings. He
gave them that. But they addressed
him as Jedrik, made the anticipated
demands, gloated over the hold they
had upon him. It was only then that
McKie saw fully how well Jedrik
had measured these people . . . and
how she had played upon her
McKie in those last hours together
like an exquisitely tuned instalment.
Now, he understood why she’d
made that violent choice.

As anticipated, the members of
the delegation were extremely sur-
prised when Broey’s people fell
upon them without warning.

For the Gowachin, to stand olone
against all adversity is the most sac*
red moment of existence.

— The Gowachin,
□ BuSab analysis

The eight prisoners were dumped
on the arena floor, bound and
shackled. McKie stopped near
them, waiting for Ceylang to arrive.
It was not yet dawn. The ceiling
above the arena remained dark. A
few of the transmitter eyes around
the upper perimeter glittered to re-
veal that they were activated. More
were coming alive by the moment.
Only a few of the witness seats
were occupied but people were

streaming in as word was passed.
The judicial bench remained empty.

The outer areaway was a din of
courtarena security forces coming
and going, people shouting orders,
the clank of weapons, a sense of
complete confusion there which
gradually resolved itself as Broey
led his fellow judges up onto their
bench. The witness pen was also fil-
ling, people punching sleep from
their eyes, great gaping yawns from
the Gowachin.

McKie looked to Broey’s people,
the ones who’d brought in the pris-
oners. He nodded for the captors to
leave, giving them a Dosadi hand
signal to remain available. They
left. Ceylang passed them as she en-
tered still fastening her robe. She
hurried to McKie ’s side, waited for
the judges to be seated before
speaking.

“What is the meaning of this?
My attendants ...”

Broey signalled McKie.

McKie stepped forward to ad-
dress the bench, pointed to the eight
bound figures who were beginning
to stir and push themselves upright.

“Here you see my client."

Parando started to speak but
Broey silenced him with a sharp
word which McKie did not catch. It
sounded like “frenzy.”

Bildoon sat in fearful fascination,
unable to wrest his attention from
the bound figures, all of whom re-
mained silent. Yes, Bildoon would
recognize those eight prisoners. In
his limited, ConSentient fashion

96

GALAXY

Bildoon was sharp enough to recog-
nize that he was in personal danger.
Parando, of course, knew this im-
mediately and watched Broey with
great care.

Again, Broey nodded to McKie.

“A fraud has been perpetrated
upon this court," McKie said. “It
is a fraud which was perpetrated
against those great and gallant
people, the Gowachin. Both Pro-
secution and Defense are its vic-
tims. The Law is its ultimate vic-
tim."

It had grown much quieter in the
arena. The observer seats were
jammed, all the transmitter eyes
alive. The faintest of dawn glow
touched the transluscent ceiling.
McKie wondered what time it was.
He had forgotten to put on any
timepiece.

There was a stir behind McKie.
He glanced back, saw attendants be-
latedly bringing Aritch into the
arena. Oh, yes — they would have
risked any delay to confer with
Aritch. Aritch was supposed to be
the other McKie expert. Too bad
that this Human who looked like
McKic was no longer the McKie
they thought they knew.

Ceylang could not hold her si-
lence. She raised a tendril for atten-
tion.

“This Tribunal ...”

McKie interrupted.

“. . . is composed of three
people. Only three.”

He allowed them a moment to
digest this reminder that Gowachin

trial formalities still dominated this
arena and were like no other such
formalities in the ConSentiency. It
could’ve been fifty judges up there
on that bench. McKie had witnessed
Gowachin trials where people were
picked at random off the streets to
sit in judgement. Such jurists took
their duties seriously, but their oven
behavior could lead another Sentient
species to question this. The
Gowachin chattered back and forth,
arranged panies, exchanged jokes,
asked each other rude questions. It
was an ancient pattern. The jurists
were required to become “a single
organism." Gowachin had their
own ways of rushing that process.

But this Tribunal was composed
of just three judges, only one of
them visibly Gowachin. They were
separate entities, their actions heavy
with mannerisms foreign to the
Gowachin. Even Broey, tainted by
Dosadi, would be unfamiliar to the
Gowachin observers. No “single
organism” here holding to the im-
mutable forms beneath Gowachin
Law. That had to be deeply disturb-
ing to the Legums who advised
Ceylang.

Broey leaned forward, addressed
the arena.

“We’ll dispense with the usual
arguments while this new develop-
ment is explored.”

Again, Parando tried to intemipt.
Broey silenced him with a glance.

“I call Aritch of the Running
Phylum,” McKie said.

He turned.

THE D05ADI EXPERIMENT

97

Ceyjang stood in mute indecision.
Her advisors remained at the back
of the arena conferring among
themselves. There seemed to be a
difference of opinion among them.

Aritch shuffled to the death -focus
of the arena, the place where every
witness was required to stand. He
glanced at the instruments of pain
arrayed beneath the judicial bench,
cast a wary look at McKie. The old
High Magister appeared harried and
undignified. That hurried conference
to explore this development must've
been a sore trial to the old
Gowachin.

McKic crossed to the formal posi-
tion beside Aritch, addressed the
judges. ,

“Here we have Aritch, High
Magister of the Running Phylum.
We were told that if guilt were to
be found in this arena, Aritch bore
that guilt. He, so we were led to be-
lieve, was the one who made the
decision to imprison Dosadi. But
how can that be so? Aritch is old,
but he isn’t as old as Dosadi. Then
perhaps his alleged guilt is to be
found in concealing the imprison-
ment of Dosadi. But Aritch sum-
moned an agent of BuSab and sent
that agent openly to Dosadi."

A disturbance among the eight
shackled prisoners interrupted
McKie. Several of the prisoners
were trying to get to their feet but
the links of the shackles were too
short.

On the judicial bench, Parando
started to lean forward, but Broey

hauled him back.

Yes, Parando and others were re-
calling the verities of a Gowachin
Counarena, the constant reversals of
concepts common throughout the
rest of the ConSentiency.

To be guilty is to be innocent.
Thus, to be innocent is to be guilty.

At a sharp command from Broey,
the prisoners grew quiet.

McKie continued.

“Aritch, conscious of the sacred
responsibilities which he carried
upon his back as a mother carries
her tads, was deliberately named to
receive the punishment blow lest
that punishment be directed at all
Gowachin everywhere. Who chose
this innocent High Magister to suf-
fer for all Gowachin?”

McKie pointed to the eight shack-
led prisoners.

“Who are these people?"
Parando demanded.

McKie allowed the question to
hang there for a long count.
Parando knew who these eight
were. Did he think he could divert
the present course of events by such
a blatant ploy?

Presently, McKie spoke.

“1 will enlighten the court in due
course. My duty, however, comes
first. My client’s innocence comes
first."

“One moment."

Broey held up a webbed hand.

One of Ceylang’s advisors hur-
ried past McKie, asked and received
permission to confer with Ceytang.
A thwarted Parando sat like a con-

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demned man watching this conver-
sation as though he hoped to find
reprieve there. Bildoon had hunched
forward, head buried in his arms.
Broey obviously controlled the Tri-
bunal.

The advisor Legum was known to
McKie, one Lagag of a middling
reputation, an officer in the Shout-
ing Phylum. He appeared pale as
though recently out of breeding. His
words to Ceylang were low and in-
tense, demanding.

The conference ended, Lagag
hurried back to his companions.
They now understood the tenor of
McKie ’s defense. Aritch must have
known all along that he could be
sacrificed here. The Consentient
Covenant no longer permitted the
ancient custom where the Gowachin

audience had poured into the arena
to kill with bare hands and claws
the innocent defendant. But let
Aritch walk from here with the
brand of innocence upon him; he
would not take ten paces outside the
arena’s precincts before being tom
to pieces.

There 'd been worried admiration
in the glance Lagag had given
McKie in passing. Yes . . . now
they understood why McKie had
maneuvered for a small and vulner-
able judicial panel.

The eight prisoners began a new
disturbance which Broey silenced
with a shout. He signalled for
McKie to continue.

“ Aritch ’s design was that I ex-
pose Dosadi, return and defend him
against the charge that he had per-

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

99

mitted illegal psychological experi-
ments upon an unsuspecting pop-
ulace. He was prepared to sacri-
fice himself for others.”

McKie sent a wry glance at
Aritch. Let the High Magister try to
fight in half-truths in that defense!

“Unfortunately, the Dosadi pop-
ulace was not unsuspecting. In fact,
forces under the command of
Keila Jedrik had moved to take con-
trol of Dosadi. Judge Broey will af-
firm that she had succeeded in
this.”

Again, McKie pointed to the
shackled prisoners.

“But these conspirators, these
people who designed and profited
from the Dosadi experiment, or-
dered the death of Keila Jedrik! She
was murdered this morning on
Tutalsee to prevent my using her at
the proper moment to prove
Aritch’s innocence. Judge Broey is
witness to the truth of what I say.
Keila Jedrik was brought into this
arena yesterday only that she might
be traced and killed!”

McKie raised both aims in an
eloquent gesture of completion,
lowered his arms.

Aritch looked stricken. He saw it.
If the eight prisoners denied the
charges, they faced Aritch’s fate.
And they must know by now that
Broey wanted them Gowachin-
guilty. They could bring in the
Caleban contract and expose the
body-exchange plot, but that risked
having McKie defend or prosecute
them because he’d already locked

them to him as the actual client be-
hind Aritch. Broey would affirm
this, too. They were at Broey ’s
mercy. If they were Gowachin-
guilty, they walked free only here
on Tandaloor. Innocent, they died
here.

As though they were one or-
ganism, the eight turned their heads
and looked at Aritch. Indeed! What
would Aritch do? If he agreed to
sacrifice himself, the eight might
live.

Ceylang, too, focused on Aritch.

Around the entire arena there was
a sense of collective-held breath.

McKie watched Ceylang. How
candid had Aritch’s people been
with their Wreave? Did she know
the full Dosadi story?

She broke the silence, exposing
her knowledge. She chose to aim
her attack at McKie on the well-
known dictum that, when all else
failed, you tried to discredit the op-
posing Legum.

“McKie, is this how you defend
these eight people whom only you
name as client?” Ceylang de-
manded.

Now, it was delicate. Would
Broey go along?

McKie countered her probe with
a question of his own?

“Are you suggesting that you’d
prosecute these people?”

“I didn’t charge them! You did.”

“To prove Aritch’s innocence."

“But you call them client. Will
you defend them?”

A collective gasp arose from the

GALAXY

100

cluster of advisors behind her near
the arena doorway. They’d seen the
trap. If McKie accepted her chal-
lenge, the judges had no choice but
to bring the eight into the arena
under Gowachin forms. Ceylang
had trapped herself into the posture
of prosecutor against the eight.
She’d said, in effect, that she af-
firmed their guilt. Doing so, she
lost her case against Aritch and her
life was immediately forfeit. She
was caught.

Her eyes glittered with the un-
spoken question.

What would McKie do?

Not yet, McKie thought. Not yet,
my precious Wreave dupe.

He turned his attention to
Parando. Would they dare introduce
the Caleban contract? The eight
prisoners were only the exposed tip
of the shadowy forces, a vulnerable
tip. They could be sacrificed. It was
clear that they saw this and didn’t
like it. No Gowachin Mrregs here
with that iron submission to respon-
sibility. They loved life and its
power, especially the ones who
wore Human flesh. How precious
life must be for those who’d lived
many lives! Very desperate, indeed.

To McKie’s Dosadi-conditioned
eyes, it was as though he read the
prisoners’ thoughts. They were
safest if they remained silent. Trust
Parando. Rely on Broey’s en-
lightened greed. At the worst, they
could live out what life was left to
them here on Tandaioor, hoping for
new bodies before the flesh they

now wore ran out of vitality. As
long as they still lived they could
hope and scheme. Perhaps another
Caleban could be hired, more
Pcharkys found ...

Aritch broke, unwilling to lose
what had almost been his.

The High Magister’s Tandaioor
accent was hoarse with protest.

“But I did supervise the tests on
Dosadi ’ s population ! ’ ’

“To what tests do you refer?’’
“The Dosadi ...”

Aritch fell silent, seeing the trap.
More than a million Dosadi
Gowachin already had left their
planet. Would Aritch make targets
of them? Anything he said could
open the door to proof that the
Dosadis were superior to non-
Dosadis. Any Gowachin (or Hu-
man, for that matter) could well be-
come a target in the next few min-
utes. One had only to denounce a
selected Human or Gowachin as
Dosadi. ConSentient fears would do
the rest. And any of his arguments
could be directed into exposure of
Dosadi 's real purpose. He obviously
saw the peril in that, had seen it
from the first.

The High Magister confirmed this
analysis by glancing at the ferret
Wreaves in the audience. What con-
sternation it would create among the
secretive Wreaves to learn that
another species could masquerade
successfully as one of their own!

McKie could not leave m a tiers
where they stood, though. He threw
a question at Aritch.

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

101

"Were the original transportees
to Dosadi apprised of the nature of
the project?"

“Only they could testify to that.”

"And their memories were
erased. We don’t even have histori-
cal testimony on this matter."

Aritch remained silent. Eight of
the original designers of the Dosadi
project sat near him on the arena
floor. Would he denounce them to
save himself? McKie thought not. A
person deemed capable of perform-
ing as The Mrreg could not possess
such a flaw. Could he? Here was
the real point of no return.

The High Magister confirmed
McKie ’s judgement by turning his
back on the Tribunal, the ages old
Cowachin gesture of submission.
What a shock Aritch ’s performance
must have been for those who’d
seen him as a possible Mrreg. A
poor choice except at the end and
that'd been as much recognition of
total failure as anything else.

McKie waited, knowing what had
to happen now. Here was Ceylang’s
moment of truth.

Broey addressed her.

“You have suggested that you
would prosecute these eight pris-
oners. The matter is in the hands of
Defense Legum."

Broey shifted his gaze.

“How say you, Legum McKie?"

The moment to test Broey had
come. McKie countered with a
question.

“Can this Courlarena suggest
another disposition for these eight

102

prisoners?"

Ceylang held her breath.

Broey was pleased. He had
triumphed in the end over Jedrik.
Broey was certain in his mind that
Jedrik did not occupy this Legum
body on the arena floor. Now, he
could show the puppet masters what
a Dosadi-bom could do. And
McKie saw that Broey intended to
move fast, much faster than anyone
had expected.

Anyone except Jedrik and she
was only a silent (memory?) in
McKie’s awareness.

Having given the appearance of
deliberation, Broey spoke.

“I can order these eight bound
over to ConSentient jurisdiction if
McKie agrees."

The eight stirred, subsided.

“I agree,” McKie said. He
glanced at Ceylang. She made no
protest, seeing the futility. Her only
hope now lay in the possible deter-
rent presence of the ferrett
Wreaves.

“Then I so order it,” Broey said.
He spared a triumphant glance for
Parando. “Let a ConSentient juris-
diction decide if these eight are
guilty of murder and other conspi-
racy.”

He was well within the bounds of
the Covenant between the ConSen-
tiency and Cowachin but the
Gowachin members of his audience
didn’t like it. Their Law was best!
Angry whistlings could be heard all
around the arena.

Broey rose half out of his seat,

GALAXY

pointed at the instruments of pain
arrayed beneath him. Gowachin in
the audience fell silent. They, better
than anyone, knew that no person
here, not even a member of the au-
dience, was outside the Tribunal's
power. And many understood
clearly now why those bloody tools
had been displayed here. Thoughtful
people had anticipated the problem
of keeping order in this arena.

Responding to the silent accep-
tance of his authority, Broey sank
back into his seat.

Parando was staring at Broey as
though having just discovered the
presence of a monster in this
Gowachin form. Many people
would be reassessing Broey now.

Aritch held his attitude of com-
plete submission.

Ceylang's thoughts almost hum-
med in the air around her. Every
way she turned, she saw only a
tangle of unmanageable tendrils and
a blocked passage.

McKie saw that it was time to
bring matters to a head. He crossed
to the foot of the judicial bench,
lifted a short spear from the instru-
ments there. He brandished the
barbed, razor-edged weapon.

“Who sits on this Tribunal?”

Once, Aritch had issued such a
challenge. McKie, repeating it,
pointed with the spear, answered his
own question.

“A Gowachin of my choice, one
supposedly wronged by the Dosadi
project. Were you wronged,
Broey?”

“No.”

McKie faced Parando.

‘‘And here we have a Human
from Lirat. Is that not the case,
Parando?”

“lam from Lirat, yes.”

McKie nodded.

“I am prepared to bring a parade
of witnesses into this arena to tes-
tify as to your occupation on Lirat.
Would you care to state that occu-
pation?”

“How dare you question this Tri-
bunal?”

Parando glared down at McKie,
face flushed.

"Answer his question.”

It was Broey.

Parando looked at Bildoon who
still sat with face concealed in his
arms, face down on the bench.
Something about the PanSpeehi re-
pelled Parando but he knew he had
to have Bildoon’s vote to overrule
Broey. Parando nudged the
PanSpeehi. Inert flesh rolled away
from Parando ’s hand.

McKie understood.

Facing doom, Bildoon had re-
treated into the creche. Somewhere,
an unprepared PanSpeehi body was
being rushed into acceptance of that
crushed identity. The emergence of
a new Bildoon would require con-
siderable time. They did not have
that time. When the creche finally
brought forth a functioning persona
it could not be heir to Bildoon 's old
powers in BuSab.

Parando was alone, exposed. He
stared at the spear in McKie’s hand.

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

103

McKie favored the arena with a
sweeping glance before speaking
once more to Parando.

“I quote that renowned expert on
Gowachin Law, High Magister
Aritch: ‘ConScntient Law always
makes aristocrats of its practition-
ers. Gowachin Law stands beneath
that pretension. Gowachin Law
asks: Who knows the people? Only
such a one is lit to judge in the
Court arena.’ That is Gowachin Law
according to High Magister Aritch.
That is the law in this place.”

Again, McKie gave Parando a
chance to speak, received only si-
lence.

“Perhaps you are truly fit to
judge here,” McKie suggested.
“Are you an artisan? A phil-
osopher? Perhaps you’re a hu-
morist? An artist? Ahhh, maybe
you are the lowliest of workmen, he
who tends an automatic machine?”
Parando remained silent, gaze
locked on that spear.

“None of these?” McKie asked.
“Then I shall supply the answer.
You are a professional legalist, one
who gives legal advice, even to ad-
vice on Gowachin Law. You, a
Human, not even a Legum, dare to
speak of Gowachin Law!”

Without any muscular warning
signal, McKie leaped forward,
hurled the spear at Parando, saw it
strike deeply into the man’s chest.
One for Jedrik!

With a bubbling gasp, Parando
sagged out of sight behind the
bench.

Broey, seeing the flash of anger
in McKie ’s effort, touched the blue
box in front of him.

Have no fear, Broey. Not yet. I
still need you.

But now, more than Broey knew
it was really McKie in this flesh.
Not Jedrik. Those members of the
shadow force watching this scene
and able to plot would make the
expected deduction. Only McKie
would’ve known Parando’ s back-
ground. They’d trace out that mis-
take in short order. So this was
McKie in the arena. But he’d left
Dosadi. There could be only one
conclusion in the plotters’ minds.

McKie had Caleban help!

They had Caiebans to fear.

And McKie thought: You have
only McKie ta fear.

He grew aware that grunts of
Gowachin approval were sounding
all around the arena. They accepted
him as a Legum, thus they accepted
his argument. Such a judge de-
served killing.

Aritch set the precedent. McKie
improved on it.

Both had found an approved way
to kill a flawed judge, but McKie’s
act had etched a Gowachin prece-
dent into the Consentient legal
framework. The compromise which
had brought Gowachin and Con Sen-
tient Law into the Covenant of
shared responsibility for the case in
this arena would be seen by the
Gowachin as a first long step to-
ward making their Law supreme
over all other law.

104

GALAXY

Aritch had half turned, looking
toward the bench, a glittering ap-
praisal in his eyes which said the
Gowachin had salvaged something
here after all.

McKie strode back to confront
Ceylang. He faced her as the forms
required while he called for judge-

“Bildoon?”

Silence.

“Parando?”

Silence.

“Brocy?”

“Judgement for Defense.”

The Dosadi accent rang across
the arena.

The Gowachin Federation, only
member of the ConSentiency which
dared permit a victim to judge those
accused of victimizing him, had re-
ceived a wound to its pride. But
they’d also received something they
would consider of inestimable
value — a foothold for their Law in
the ConSentiency plus a memorable
court performance which was about
to end in the drama they loved best.

McKie stepped to within striking
distance of Ceylang, extended his
right hand straight out to the side,
palm up.

“The knife.”

Attendants scurried. There came
the sound of the blue box being
opened. Presently, the knife handle
was slapped firmly into McKie '$
palm. He closed his fingers around
it, thinking as he did so of all those
countless others who had faced this'
moment in a Gowachin Courtarena.

“Ceylang?”

“1 submit to the ruling of this
court."

McKie saw the ferret Wreaves
rise from their seats as one person.
They stood ready to leap down into
the arena and avenge Ceylang no
matter the consequences. They
could do nothing else but cany out
the role which the Gowachin had
designed for them. Few in the arena
had misunderstood their presence
here. No matter the measurement of
the wound, the Gowachin did not
suffer such things gladly.

An odd look of cameraderie
passed between Ceylang and McKie
then. Here they stood, the only two
non-Gowachin in the ConSentient
universe who had passed through
that peculiar alchemy which trans-
formed a person into a Legum. One
of them was supposed to die im-
mediately and the other would not
long survive that death. Yet, they
understood each other the way sib-
lings understand each other. Each
had shed a particular skin to become
something else.

Slowly, deliberately, McKie ex-
tended the tip of his blade toward
Ceylang ’s left jowl, noting the
miriad pocks of her triad exchanges
there. She trembled but remained
firm. Deftly, with the swiftest of
flicking motions, McKie added
another pock to those on her left
jowl.

The ferret Wreaves were the first
to understand. They sank back into
their seats.

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

105

Ceylang gasped, touched a tendril
to the wound. Many times she had
been set free by such a wound,
moving on to new alliances which
did not completely sunder the old .

For a moment, McKie thought
she might not accept, but the in-
creasing sounds of approval all
around the arena overcame her
doubts. The noise of that approval
climbed to a near deafening cres-
cendo before subsiding. Even the
Gowachin joined this. How dearly
they loved such legal nuances!

Pitching his voice for Ceylang
alone, McKie spoke.

“You should apply for a position
in BuSab. The new director would
look with favor upon your applica-
tion.”

“You?”

“Make a Wreave bet on it.”

She favored him with the grimace
which passed for a smile among
Wreaves, spoke the traditional
words of triad farewell.

“We were well and truly wed.”
So she, too, had seen the truth in
their unique closeness.

McKie betrayed the extent of his
esoteric knowledge by producing
the correct response.

“By my mark 1 know you.”

She showed no surprise. A good
brain there, not up to Oosadi stan-
dards, but good.

Well and truly wed.

Keeping a firm lock on his emo-
tions (the Dosadi in him helped),
McKie crossed to confront Aritch.
“Client Aritch, you are inno-

166

McKie displayed the fleck of
Wreave blood on the knife tip.

“The forms have been obeyed
and you are completely exonerated.
I rejeice with all of those who love
justice."

At this point in the old days, the
jubilant audience would’ve fallen on
the hapless client, would've fought
for bloody scraps with which to
parade through the city. No doubt
Aritch would’ve preferred that. He
was a traditionalist. He confirmed
that now.

“I am glad to quit these times,
McKie.”

McKie mused aloud.

“Who will be The Mrreg now
that you’re . . .disqualified? Who-
ever it is, I doubt he’ll be as good
as the one he replaces. It will profit
that next Mrreg to reflect upon the
fragile and fugitive value to be
gained from the manipulation of
others.”

Glowering, Aritch turned and
shambled toward the doorway out
of the arena.

Some of the Gowachin from the
audience already were leaving, no
doubt hoping to greet Aritch out-
side. McKie had no desire to wit-
ness that remnant of an ancient
ritual. He had other concerns.

Well and truly wed.

Something burned in his eyes.
And still he felt that soft and steep-
ing presence in his awareness.

Jedrik?

No response.

He glanced at Broey who, true to
GALAXY

his duty as a judge, would be the
last to leave the arena. Broey sat
blandly contemplating this place
where he’d displayed the first de-
signs of his campaign for supre-
macy in the ConSentiency. He
would accept nothing less short of
his own death. Those shadowy pup-
pet masters would be the first to
feel his rule.

That fitted the plan McKie and
Jedrik had forged between them. In
a way, it was still the plan of those
who’d bred and conditioned Jedrik
for the tasks she’d performed so ex-
quisitely.

It was McKie ’s thought that those
nameless, faceless Dosadis who
stood in ghostly ranks behind Jedrik
had made a brave choice. Faced
with the evidence of body -exchange
all around, they’d judged that to be
a deadly choice — the conservatism
of extinction. Instead, they’d trusted
sperm and ova, always seeking the
new and better, the changed, the
adapted. And they’d launched their
simultaneous campaign to eliminate
the Pcharkys of their world, reserv-
ing only that one for their final
gamble.

It was well that this explosive se-
cret had been kept here. McKie felt
grateful to Ceylang. She’d known,
but even when it might’ve helped
her, she’d remained silent. BuSab
would now have time to forge ways
of dealing with this problem.
Ceylang would be valuable there.
And perhaps more would be learned
about PanSpechi, Calebans and

Taprisiots. If only Jedrik . . .

He felt a fumbling in his
memories.

“If only Jedrik what?”

She spoke laughingly in his mind
as she’d always spoken there.

McKie suppressed a fit of trem-
bling, almost fell.

“Careful with our body,” she
said. “It’s the only one we have
now.”

“Whose body?”

She caressed his mind.

“Ours, love.”

Was it hallucination? He ached
with longing to hold her in his
arms, to feel her arms around him,
her body pressed to him.

“That’s lost to us forever, love,
but see what we have in ex-
change."

When he didn’t respond, she
said:

“One can always be watching
while the other acts . . .or sleeps.”

“But where are you?”

“Where I’ve always been when
we exchanged. See?”

He felt her parallel to him in the
shared flesh and, as he voluntarily
drew back, he came to rest in con-
tact with their mutual memories,
still looking from his own eyes but
aware that someone else peered out
there, too, that someone else turned
this body to face Broey.

Fearful that he might be trapped
here, McKie almost panicked, but
Jedrik gave him back the control of
their flesh.

“Do you doubt me, love?”

THE DOSAD1 EXPERIMENT

107

He felt shame. There was nothing
she could hide from him. He knew
how she felt, what she’d been wil-
ling to sacrifice for him.

“You’d have made their perfect
Mrreg.”

“Don’t even suggest it.”

She went pouring through his
arena memories then and her joy de-
lighted him.

“Oh, marvelous, McKie. Beauti-
ful! I couldn’t have done it better.
And Broey still doesn't suspect.”

Attendants were taking (he eight
prisoners out of the arena now, all
of (hem still shackled. The audience
benches were almost empty.

A sense of joy began filtering
through McKie.

I lost something but / gained
something .

“You didn't lose as much as
Aritch.”

“And I gained more.”

McKie permitted himself to stare
up at Broey (hen, studying the
Gowachin judge with Dosadi eyes
and two sets of awareness. Aritch
and the eight accused of murder
were things of the past. They and
many others like (hem would be
dead or powerless before another
ten-day. Broey already had shown
the speed with which he intended to
act. Supported by his troop of
Jedrik-chosen aides, Broey would
occupy the seats of power, con-
solidating lines of control in that

108

GALAXY

shadow government, eliminating
every potential source of opposition
he could touch. He believed Jedrik
dead and, while McKie was clever.
McKie and BuSab were not a pri-
mary concern. One struck at the real
seats of power. Being Dosadi,
Broey could not act otherwise. And
he’d been almost the best his planet
had ever produced. Almost,

Jedrik -within chuckled.

Yes, with juggernaut eenainty,
Broey would create a single target
for BuSab. And Jedrik had refined
the simulation pattern by which
Broey could be anticipated. Broey
would find McKie wailing for him
at the proper moment.

Behind McKie would be a new

BuSab, an agency directed by a
person whose memories and
abilities were amplified by the one
person superior to Broey that
Dosadi had ever produced.

Standing there in the now silent
arena, McKie wondered:

When will Broey realize he does
our work for us?

“When we show him that he
failed to kill me!”

In the purest obedience to
Gowachin forms, without any sign
of the paired thoughts twining
through his mind, McKie bowed
toward the surviving jurist, turned
and left. And all the time, Jedrik-
within was planning . . . plot-
ting . . . planning ... ★

THE DOSADI EXPERIMENT

109

At last, a few moments of free
time to devote to my novel. Where
was I?

‘The noble alien bravely faced
the shambling, evilly grinning
Earthman. The alien cried, “Stop
where you step, John Gorman! You
shall not have our planet’s trea-
sures!" ’

‘The cowardly human ’

"Alter."

Don’t interrupt my flow, Geis.
I’m really in the groove now. This
stuff will win a Hugo.

‘The cowardly human cringed at
the sight of the Hamilton-Grzzxye
W-2 blaster. “I come in peace,
alien, sir. Only — " ’

“Alter, I hate to interrupt,
but — ”

* “Only I must find the near-
est bathroom. . . ’ Bathroom?

Where did that come from? Geis!
Look what you made me do!
You’ve blown my concentration all
to hell! How can I work with you
insidiously inserting words like that
into my precious prose?

“I laugh at your juvenile fiction,
Alter. But let us not get into
another argument about your ta-
lents. Do you see that blinking light
on your phone? Do you realize that
Jim Baen has been trying to get in
touch with you for a week?”

I thought it was Roger Elwood
asking for a job as assistant editor
of Alter Ego Publications.

"You were wrong. Jim finally
had to call me and ask whether you
were still alive or not. He needs
another column for Galaxy, and it is
your column now, you know. It’s
your responsibility.”

110

GALAXY

I know, I know . . . Alright, I’ll
get right on it. I know what I'll do!
I'll complain about die poor quality
of most sf I read, and then I’ll print
the opening chapter of my novel to
show how really fine stuff can be!
Yow! The readers will love it!
They’lt. . . .

Geis, who is that person who is
hiding behind your back? Who have
you brought down here to inflict
upon me?

"Who? This person? Oh, this is
an admirer of yours, Alter. A great
enthusiast. He prevailed upon me to
let him come down here to meet
you. It was inevitable, you know,
that sooner or later even you would
have a few fans."

A fan of mine! Well! Stand
aside, Geis. Let’s get this over
with.

(A few silent seconds pass.)

Well? Why don't you run scream-
ing? Why don’t you turn pale and
cringe?

"Mr. Alter Ego, sir, I love your
scratchy voice, and the way you
choose your words with such care
and cunning. You're the first thing I
listen to every time your column
appears in Galaxy. I get a great
kick out of your fights with Geis.’’

Yeah, Geis gets a kick out of
them, too. Don’t you, Geis? GEIS?
Where did he slip away to?

"He said he coutd only stay a
minute. But he’ll be back to guide
me back to the surface in a short
while.”

And in the meantime I’m stuck

with you, hah? Well, what do you
want?

"Just to listen to you, and maybe
interview you for my group.”

Ah! An interview! Yes, and it’s
about time I was interviewed!
Geis ’ll be insane with jealousy.
Sure, man, go ahead and ask
questions. I have to admire your
guts; most people, even hardcore sf
fans, turn queasy at the sight of my
alien visage. And I look even worse
today because I haven’t shaved
my tendrils or sandpapered my
pseudopods for a week. That, com-
bined with my icky green scaly
skin. . . .

"Oh, that doesn’t bother me a
bit. I can’t see you.”

Bad eyesight? Let me dial up the
lamp a bit more.

“That won’t help. I’m un-
sighted.”

Uhh? Aww . . . Come on! If
you’re blind you couldn’t read
Galaxy. You couldn’t read my col-
umn!

"I don’t read it with my eyes. I
‘read’ it from listening to a cassette.
Galaxy is provided to unsighted
people on cassettes by the Library
of Congress.”

It is? Son of a glytch! I didn’t
know that.

“Oh, yes. Galaxy is the only sf
magazine that has permitted itself to
be distributed to us this way. You’d
be surprised at how many thousands
of fans you have among the un-
sighted, Mr. Alter.”

Thousands?

THE ALIEN VIEWPOINT

“Ummhmm. There’s a great
hunger among the unsighted for sci-
ence fiction and fantasy. The prob-
lem is there's so little of it on tape
and records. And we can afford so
few of the commercially produced
items.”

I know what you mean. I try
bugging Gets to buy a few fantasy
records and he starts shouting about
money. The only things of that na-
ture we have in the archives are
what show up to be reviewed.

“We were wondering if there are
any fans or fan groups out there in
the sighted readership of Galaxy
who perhaps cany on discussions of
science fiction and fantasy on
cassettes — ”

Yeah, yeah, seems to me Geis
mentioned there was a cassette fan-
dom in existence a few years
ago . . . Might still be active. He
couldn’t remember any names or
addresses, though, and his records
are a shambles.

‘‘We’d love to be included. And
if it were at all possible, maybe
some fan groups could organize re-
cording sessions and put the best sf
and fantasy on cassettes.”

That’s a good idea. There have to
be lots of fans with good diction,
good voices, a flair for dramatic
reading, who would love to do that.
Club projects. Coordination with
other clubs to avoid duplication of
recorded stories . . .

“Wouldn’t that infringe on au-
thor’s rights? We wouldn’t want
to—”

I doubt there are any writers,
especially sf and fantasy writers,
who would object to having their
stories taped for non-profit distribu-
tion to the unsighted. I’m sure
they’d be flattered and proud to
have their stories chosen. But
you're right to raise the point.
There would have to be a central
clearing-house, a coordinating
center, to organize things and put
people in contact with each other. I
would suggest Geis, but he is so
busy with Science Fiction Review
he'd have my head on a platter if I
tried to saddle him with this.

“Maybe — ”

I think this is a job for Jim Baen!
Jim?

Ahem. Yes, Alter. It happens
that this very subject came up two
issues back in “Directions." Oddly
enough my pristinely human brain
ran in channels not dissimilar to
those of your weirdly alien . . . er,
it is a brain, is it not? (I’ve never
been quite clear on that point.) In
any event, / think the simplest
course would be for me to repeat
my remarks in the letter column
verbatim:

l have recently learned that over
10% of Galaxy's “ readers' ' are
sightless, or nearly so. I also
learned — long ago — that among
Galaxy’s sighted readers are some
of the most warmly enthusiastic and
giving people in the world. It strikes

112

GALAXY

me that this is a setup: l propose
that Galaxy act as a clearing-house
between people who would like to
provide science fiction-oriented ser-
vices for the sightless and those
who would like to receive such ser-
vices.

The services might include escort-
ing at conventions and to fan club
meetings; reading , either “live" or
via cassette; helping to organize
(this would probably only be feasi-
ble in large cities) fan clubs for the
visually impaired, together with a
sighted "■auxiliary" to provide
reading, escort and whatever. Au-
thors could provide a very special
service by arranging with their pub-
lishers for permission to do multiple
cassette recordings of their works
for non-profit distribution. Finally,
someone must assume the
" clearing-house " role: Galaxy will
only be able to carry the burden for
a limited time. Perhaps some fan
club would like to offer its services
for this?

Those interested in being put in
touch with volunteers should wait at
least a month before making in-
quiries. Those wishing to volunteer
should write immediately to:

Galaxy Magazine
Volunteers
PO Box 418
Planetarium Station
New York, NY 10024

Okay. Now, fan of mine, you

SCIENCE FICTION REVIEW

An Informal & irreverent Science
Fiction & Fantasy Journal
Edited & Published by
Richard E. Geis

Issue #21 features interviews
with Ed Hamilton & Leigh Brac-
kett Plus an interview with Tim
Kirk.

Barry Malzberg’s controversial
column. The Dream Quarter.”

An examination of Lester del
Rey’s possible conflict-of-
interest as book reviewer for
Analog.

The Editor’s sometimes star-
tling diary, “Alien Thoughts.”

In Hand for the AUGUST issue:
“An Evolution of Conscious-
ness” by Marlon Zimmer Brad-
ley; and “SF and S-E-X (Or Vice
Versa)” by Sam Merwln, Jr.

Set for NOVEMBER: A rare
Interview with Jack Vance.

Quarterly/sampte SI
year $4/two years. S7

SCIENCE FICTION REVIEW
P.O. Box 11400
Portland, OR 97211

THE ALIEN VIEWPOINT

113

mentioned wanting to do an inter-
view with me? Why not now? Go
right ahead and ask question
. . . especially now, with Geis out
of the way.

“Thank you. Alter. Umm . . .
There is some curiosity about how
you came into existence. Where and
how were you born?”

I was born on the fifth planet,
Gnerf, of the Zirb system, about
thirty light-years from here, as the
flurb flies. I was bom like any other
creature of my race, from larvae
deposited into the abdomen of giant
Hrmmps. I had to eat my way out,
growing strong and large as I ate,
of course, and was “bom” on a
dark and stormy night. Ah, yes, I
remember it well . . .

“Then, how did you come to
Earth and . . . inhabit . . . Richard
Geis’s mind?"

I volunteered for a space
mission — exploration ... Oh, lurp!
I'll tel) you the truth. I was thrown
into a warper and exiled to this
Kaku-forsaken planet. They just di-
aled at random and threw the
switch! I materialized in the middle
of an assassination of one of your
leaders and had to discorporate in-
stantly. In that vulnerable state it
was all I could do to keep my
atoms together. I was sucked
thousands of miles into a mental
vacuum, and when I finally pulled
my remaining essence together I
discovered I was in Geis’s brain.
I’ve been here ever since, growing
stronger and stronger.

“Why were you exiled?”

That I will not tell you. The
crimes of Gnerf do not relate to
human crimes.

“What are your plans?"

Short-range, I want to throw Geis
out of this body, make some radical
changes in the organs, and become
a male porno star. Long-range, I
want to take over the world. Since
my normal lifespan is 790,000 of
your years, that will become boring
after a few thousand years. I’ll
probably try to bribe my way back
into Gnerf society.

“Can you make Geis’s body last
so long?”

Oh, no. That’s part of the drag of
living on this ridiculous planet. I’ll
have to body- hop every few de-
cades.

“Ahh, Mr. Alter, there is a prob-
lem . . . How is it Mr. Geis can be
absent, while I’m apparently talking
to you?”

I have the power to cloud men’s
minds. I project an illusion. At this
moment I am actually in Geis’s fee-
ble brain, and you are hallucinating
under my direction.

“That makes me feel . . . funny.
Scared.”

You had to ask.

“Are the archives real?”

After a fashion. We are in Geis’s
basement, convened to offices and
lined with shelves. This place actu-
ally is a mess!

“You’ve destroyed a good many
illusions, Alter. Are you telling me
the truth?”

114

GALAXY

No, of course not. Well, yes,
partly.

“Which pan?!’

I won’t tell you that. Are you
through interviewing me? Any more
questions?

"Yes, there are a few more
questions. Are you going to ever
publish a magazine all by yourself,
without Mr. Geis?”

Yes, if I can ever get Geis’s af-
fairs and work habits organized for
greater efficiency, I plan to publish
my own science fiction and fantasy.
For adults only, of course. But
that’s at least a year away.

“What will you call it?”

I think Irresponsible Science Fic-
tion is a good title. Counter-
counter-counter culture sf for hope-
less iconoclasts.

“Could you give us an example?
A story idea?”

I like the story of the huge Bar-
barian who saves the beautiful
maiden from the wizard, and takes
payment for the rescue in money
and sex. He doesn’t believe in risk-
ing his neck for nothing.

“That is revolutionary. Any other
ideas for stories?”

Yes, the story whose premise is
that Earth has never been visited by
aliens or saucers, and that the
phenomenon we experience now
and have in the past, is only a dis-
traction created by the true rulers of
Earth — cockroaches .

“Anything else?”

Well, I’ve toyed with the idea of
a story about a man who proves to

mankind that they can never, ever,
get something for nothing. For this
sin he is tortured to death by a
horde of enraged politicians.

“Do you think your magazine
would be very popular?”

No, it will have a very limited
appeal.

“How long do you expect to
write this column in Galaxy T'

As long as I’m wanted.

“Thank you, Mr. Alter.”

You’re welcome. Ah, 1 see Geis
returning to take you back up to the
surface.

“Alter, I just took a call from
President Carter. He wants you to
come to Washington to accept an
appointment. He wants you to be
available as an official ambassador
to any and all aliens who happen to
visit or be discovered, during his
reign . . .er, term of office.”

Tell him no, Geis. I happen to
know the Denebians will be visiting
Earth in six years, and they look
like four-foot peanuts with legs. It’ll
be a very unfortunate scene. Now,
will you take this gentleman back
up to the surface and leave me be to
write my prose?

“It’s your column.”

I’m glad you finally accept that.
Now, where was I?

‘The Earth man was misun-

derstood. He only wanted to go to
the bathroom.’

Yes. . . . yes. . . . Hmm. Now,
if he wears a spacesuit with a relief
tube . . . Bathroom !? Damn you,
Geis! ★

113

THE ALIEN VIEWPOINT

fifsen Dafnay

the

Pheromonal Fountain

“And gentle odours
led my steps astray,
Mixed with the sound
of water’s murmuring. ...”
— P. B. Shelley

^^OULD you believe? I have
been activated, btu’s pulse deep in-
side my core once more. Out of
storage chamber 1 step into the
light. I’m off on another assign-
ment.

My name is Friday. Sometimes I
know precisely why they call me
that; sometimes it’s more obscure: it
all depends on how I’m pro-
grammed for the work ahead. This
assignment should be some kind of
guru. I feel little in the way of data
in my coils. But talent makes up for
lack of information.

1 make this record as I speed
away. A mini-device implanted in
my sphenoidal sinus receives my
thought projections. I have little use
for sinuses. I am a surrogate, of
course, and what with my other
superior powers, who needs a nose?

This world so full of sunshine, so
a-throb with haunting vibration, is
that of the 21st century. The
background tells me that we’re
civilized-— terribly civilized.

Technology rears up like a tidal
wave. It’s still up there, that wave,
holding, holding — but any minute
now it threatens to engulf the
human world.

Crime’s rampant, says my pro-
gram. Not enough agents to stop the
nefarities of our Ph-deed dis- socials.

THE PHEROMONAL FOUNTAIN

Religion, mores, ideals — dead and
dust. Competition virulates. Gov-
ernment paralyzes in its paral-
ysis. Developed nations chew
the edges of our Overdeveloped
shores like locusts. Pretty soon — no
more America. Not enough people
here, too many people there. “Mass
balance” is the political slogan,
meaning that people should be mak-
ing babies in this land, not riveting
with surrogates. But that program
lacks political appeal: people love
the surrogates; they live inside bor-
dello domes.

I ride the tube train out of sun-
shine into darkness, away from
Praerie Pheonix Institute, old PPI,
my resting place between assign-
ments. It’s good to be alive, good
to get away.

The tube train settles in its
downward rush through plasma-
carved tunnels in which it glides on
sheets of air. The lights that dim-
med during our rocky start come
back to full candle power. People
relax, unstrap, and ring for bever-
ages. I look around. And (here, two
seats away and to my right, I
glimpse Banfield from (he Institute.

Seeing Banfield is an omen — and
not a good one, I might add. Less
than an hour into my assignment,
and that old PS I starts stirring up
my irrationality circuits. Why is
Banfield on this train? Is he on the
same assignment I am on? Doesn’t

117

PPI trust Friday to do the job alone?
Banfield causes a burning sensation
in the membranes of my nutrient
bladder.

He is a repulsive surrogate of the
aggressive, bold variety called
“Tanker,” the first successful male
product line United Ferns and Dolls
came out with after they decided to
crash into Masculinity and try for a
slice of the middle-aged divorcee
market.

He has a long face, thick
sideburns, and lips that the ads call
sensuous but I’d call lewd. The
simulated leather suit he wears
suggests the joys of being whipped
with thongs. His purple shirt is
open at the neck, half unbuttoned.
You just know that Banfield loves
those simulated curlicues of protein
on his chest.

He pretends he doesn’t see me.
We’re not exactly soul mates, he
and I, but I’m a senior agent and
won’t be ignored — not by a recent
acquisition.

“Banfield,” I call. “Which way
you headed?”

“Oh, Friday. Hi.” He simulates
surprise. “Out,” he says and waves
a hairy hand.

It’s a rule at PPI not to talk about
assignments, a rule we honor in the
breach. Not Banfield. He clings to
that trajectory. He must be up to
some No-Good. His background
program comes from UFD — and
they’re known for their whopping
tangerines. But I won’t press the
point. I nod to him and wave a

hand by way of saying See you
around, and he takes his cue and
dives into a magazine. I guess I’ll
follow suit.

I reach into the front- seat pocket
and fish out a copy of Chronos. 1
know from past activations that
Chronos has been rampaging
against the rise of surrogates, a
story I like to follow, and this time
too I am rewarded. Once more
Chronos is on the attack, tilting
against the sexual decadence. The
cover person is a gross-fat woman
by name of Ruby Smith — not a sur-
rogate, she. She owns and runs the
Vegas Pomorama, the nation’s
largest bordello dome, a nine-
hundred acre island of delights
amidst the desert sands. Hhm. This
is new: At Pornorama, it says here,
no human being has ever refused
the come-on warble of a Mattress or
a Buck. I find that odd.

Something fascinates me about
the story, and knowing that I’ve got
PSI, I click on a concentration lock
and dig into it deeply. And the next
thing I know — surfacing from the
muckraking account, Banfield has
disappeared.

I have no nasal circuits but
nevertheless — methinks I smell a
stranded whale. PPI programs its
agents superlatively. Everything has
its significance.

I lean back, close my eyes, and
start to ihink about my assignment,
which is with the FBI, details un-
known. My storage is rather
skimpy — itself revealing. But I

GALAXY

know this: the “highest levels" in
that agency called Dr. Trobote, our
president. They asked that he send
them the very best agent money
could lease. Me, of course. I am to
help a certain Bud MacGuire,
agent-in-charge of something called
‘Project Evacuation.’ MacGuire has
been working on the case for sev-
eral months without success. I'm
thinking: Won't he be just itching
green to see me?

The train rides on.

Noonish at last and 1 arrive
in Washington, D. C. The metro
whisks me to a spot outside the FBI
building. I look at it from across the
street. The structure survives from
the ‘troubled century’ and looks like
a triple-decker brick on legs. My
aesthetic circuits turn off in hor-
rified registers.

Two higher-ups receive me. They
wear blue suits and look alike. They
treat me like — well, like higher-ups
treat surrogates: barely. I’m not
asked to sit. One man reaches for a
telephone and dials MacGuire. In-
vites him to have lunch downstairs,
in the basement Intravenous. "Want
you to meet someone,” he tells
MacGuire. “Ten minutes?”

Downstairs MacGuire takes one
look at me and dislikes what he
sees. His eyes and face (a little on
the ruddy side) say he is expecting
trouble — and trouble comes.

After the waitress has needled us

in, the older of the higher-ups (he
has folds in his stumpy neck), starts
none too gently, saying:

“Project Evacuation isn’t doing
much, MacGuire. We figured you
needed a little help. Friday here is
your new assistant."

And that’s the high point of the
introduction — all downhill from

there.

Later, after the higher-ups have
left, MacGuire points an index fin-
ger at me in the hall, and though
the finger trembles, I notice that
MacGuire chews his nails.

“Listen, you," he says, and a
bloody eye stares menacingly, “no
clackering surrogate’s gonna be my
assistant, no matter what they say,”
and he hooks an angry thumb to-
ward the ceiling.

Six hours into the assignment,
and I’m really steaming with the
client’s man; we’re puff, puff, puf-
fing down a pair, of rails that aren’t
parallel.

“Call me your contractor, then,”
I say.

"Don’t you tell me what to call
you,” he says.

He stalks away, leaving me
stand, but I follow him thinking that
I’m as good as he is; more so: my
eyes are baby blue, glistening au-
burn my hair. I’m a souped-up
Model “Boss” modified in speech
and manner to pass for a man any
day. No ‘clackering’ whatever,
brothers. Nor am I prejudiced, nor
will I die. Sweet Manson! I’m
eighty -five percent organic, but try

THE PHEROMONAL FOUNTAIN

119

telling MacGuire that! At least
when I am programmed, I know it.

He disregards me when I enter
the office in his wake and seat my-
self on his inflato-chair. The chair
turns out to be equipped with little
farting horns: a practical joker, this
MacGuire. He roars with laughter,
his face turns purple, he slaps his
knee, he pounds the desk. I recog-
nize the type and know that he will
be more friendly now that he has
rammed me one; and so it is.

“All right,” he says, wiping
tears from his eyes, still chuckling.
“All rightl Friday, is that it? Nice
name for a surrogate. Tell you
what, boy. I’ll put you next door
and you can brief yourself — if you
know how to tune a self-surround.”

I tell him I might just manage.
Two hours later I'm still at it,
fourth time around, and note with
surprise that my motivational pro-
gramming on this assignment allows
me to experience despair. I’m bot-
toming in the stuff. If I had tear
glands, I’d shed some brackish.

MacGuire comes in, leans against
the door post, arms folded across
his chest. He moves up and down,
scratching his back on the door
post.

“Your best bet, Friday,” he
says, chin-pointing to a flash chart
of U.S. cities on the screen, “is to
be there next time they hit.”

“How can I? You can’t predict

where they’ll hit, can you?” I ask.

“Of course not. If I could I’d
move right in and stop it just like
that.” He snaps a finger.

“If you can’t, what makes you
think I can?” I ask. And I wonder,
at the same time, why PPI has pro-
grammed me so gloomy.

“You’re my high-powered assis-
tant, ain’tcha? You’ll figure out a
way.”

MacGuire makes a noise that
didn’t come from his inflato-chair,
grins, and leaves me to my mis-
eries.

I walk the streets of Washington
in mid-afternoon. Background pro-
grams tell me it’s an ordinary day.

Over near Capitol Hill a workfare
crowd eight thousand strong, in bril-
liant rags and shiny, purple hats,
has gathered to witness the arrival
of a real-life Godzilla grown from a
rock lizard by DNA-gene-insertion
in Osaka and sent to Congress as a
gesture of international solidarity by
the Diet in Japan. Godzilla is drug-
ged, says a man at a street corner
gawking boredly. Drugged or not, it’s
a fearsome beast, tall as the
Washington monument. Its playpen,
built adjacent to the zoo, cost a bil-
lion and wiped out two affluent
suburbs. I understand Godzilla had
to swim the Pacific after three con-
nected supertankers meant to carry
it across the ocean sank during em-
barcation. I feel a little for the

120

GALAXY

beast — it can’t help being a monster
and it's far from home.

Over near Commerce a pesky
smog pocket has brought six oxygen
vans racing, and men in white suits
and bubble helmets are handing
masks to doubled-over somebodies.
I don’t need air but take a thing
anyway. No need to advertise my
suirogation.

Near Justice I pass sixteen
shaven -headed brethem of the
Death - to DDT- thaltdomide-
flurorocarbons - mercury - phos-
phates - asbestos - and
various- plastics Association.
It’s an old-fashioned, traditional
group whose name has not kept
pace with issues. They're chanting
“Death to Curalofoam” while
herding in their midst a group of
mutagens (for demonstration, 1
suppose) — slavering people whose
arms sash uncontrollably, whose
spindly necks bob, whose walk
resembles that of people stepping
over huge, invisible crates with one
leg. The brethern keep the mutagens
in line with NP (for no-pain) cattle
prods, the latest import from Brazil.

Enough idle sightseeing. I need a
quiet hotel. I need to think.

Then at Lafayette Square I sud-
denly stop. I see the fountain: a
stony groove-chick representing
America (I guess) lifts a bleeding,
kneeling little man in stone pyjamas
and a stone bamboo hat — memento
to some long forgotten war.

It’s not the war that interests me
but the fountain. Every time the

THE PHEROMONAL FOUNTAIN

phantom forces of Evacuation have
struck thus far, a fountain has been
involved. Fountains, I tell myself.
That’s it. You’ve got to watch the
fountains in the cities they haven’t
hit.

And now it is several days later.
I am in Kansas City, just off (he
Plaza, seated on a bench. I watch a
fountain.

I’ve been sitting here for three
days and three nights, unceasing in
my vigilance. If surrogates are cap-
able of madness, I must be posi-
tively nutmeg.

What makes me think they’ll
strike in Kansas City? Nothing. But
I’ve got PSI. And the pattern of
past strikes has been random. I
asked my own randy-disc to pick a
city. It picked Kansas City, and
consequently here I am. And I am
here specifically because this is the
only fountain near a rich and fash-
ionable shopping center.

Evacuation works like this: sud-
denly and without warning, all the
people in an area will start to head
with unerring instinct toward some
riveting fountain.

They stand and stare and mill in
a daze for several hours on end.
And even after they shake off the
puzzling fascination, it usually takes
several hours to untangle the hin-
denburg mess.

Meanwhile, of course, unob-
served predators loot the nearby,

121

empty stores and banks. They make
off with cash and jewelry by min-
gling with the crowd. Or that’s the
theory.

Post-factum analysis has revealed
nothing so far — though everything
has been analyzed: fountains, airs,
waters, and selected possessee
metabolisms. Traps have been set,
emergency procedures formulated.
But the authorities have failed to
cope. Cops flown or driven into
emptied areas — with or without gas
masks — are possessed by the same
fountain urge and quickly leave the
solution to join the problem.

It’s dark. 1 sit. The fifth gayzte
has just approached me and been
told to blow a balloon. 1 swim in a
Pacific of programmed depression,
a sad Godzilla of a secret agent.
Did Dr. Trubote mean for me to
fail? This isn’t like me in the least.
Then — action, at last!!

I spot a little man. He comes in a
splattered all-over suit canying two
buckets. He wears — yes, mam! He
wears hip boots.

A cold cigar is cornered in his
mouth and a floppy pie of an ar-
tist’s beret sits on his head. He
climbs into the fountain, avoiding
the spuits of bottom-lighted water
(green, orange, red). And the next
thing you know, he is seated on a
dolphin’s back and is painting the
head of an up-rearing horse with a
kind of white discoloration.

Interesting. My chronomat says
22:30. I rise and approach.

“Hey,” 1 cry. “You there. Sir.”
He looks at me. “Yeah?”

“What’ re you doing?”

“What’s it look like?”

“I don’t know," I say — and I re-
ally don’t.

“Look, man, leave me be. I've
got work to do.”

"But why are you painting the
horse?”

“Because I’ve got a contract,”
he says. “Okay? I’ve got it right
here.” He slaps his chest. "Every-
thing all square and squared. Now
pulverize.”

I persist. “Excuse me, but could
you tell me the reason? Why would
the city want to paint a perfectly
fine piece of sculpture? And why in
that goosey white?”

The little man is irritated. He
puts down his brush, clamps down
on his cigar, unstraddles the dol-
phin, and comes toward me, head
low. His face turns green, orange,
and finally red as he passes over
zones of underlighting.

“What are you?” he asks. “A
surrogate or something?”

I say, “Don’t be silly,” and
don’t even blush.

“Look,” he says, “this city has
a bubble, don’t it?”

I look up reflexively and nod.
Yes, sir. Kansas City has a weather
bubble. “So?”

“So there ain’t no pigeons, is
there?"

“Pigeons?”

122

GALAXY

“Yeah, what else? Pigeons. You
know. Rutter, flutter?” He lifts his
arms and waves his hands like
wings. He considers me an idiot.

My programming has a gap in it
somewhere. I still don’t get it and I
say so.

He shakes his head. “Mister, you
should plug into the media. Yes,
sir. You sure need some culture.
What’s a fountain without no pi-
geon faecal matter on it? Well?”

“Ah,” I say. “I get it.” (But I
still don’t.) “So you paint faecal
matter on the sculpture. I see."

“Well, finally!”

“But why do you 'do it at
night?"

He has had it with me, but he an-
swers. “What would the public say
if they saw me do it? Mister, you
ain’t got no sense. This stuff’s sup-
posed to be natural.”

It’s a long night. My fourth. The
pigeon faecal matter painter has
done his dabbles and has left. 1
have reviewed my deep-stored data
and found that indeed weather bub-
bles vibrate on a frequency that pi-
geons find alarming. As for the
aesthetic charm of those whitish
smears on horse and maid and
dolphin — that has roots deeper than
my circuitry.

Day dawns. The last and most
persistent gayzie of the night, sulk-
ing on a nearby bench, has turned
on a portable radio. Its loud blar-

ings tell me what I already know:
Today is Helium Day in Kansas
City.

Helium Maid of 2013 will be
lofted up toward the pinnacle of the
weather bubble on a throne of bal-
loons which will be timed to burst
on high. Helium Maid will
parachute down and land in Volker
Park.

It’s still early but a crowd begins
to gather. Helium Maid will start
her journey from the Plaza. If any-
one plans to rivet with this fountain,
it’s probably too late. I break my
vigil. I need movement in my
limbs — and data, more data.

MacGuire can’t make sense of
me and I can’t make sense of him.
Time difference between our two
loci is one hour. He insists on eat-
ing his breakfast while talking on
the telephone, and what with Ma
Bell’s much improved resonators, I
might as well be inside his stomach.

“Pigeons?” he asks, and his
tongue fishes for, say, a bit of
tooth-jammed raisin. “What in the
buzz do you wanna know that for?”
He swallows, and it sounds as if a
whale had just surfaced from an
ocean of lard in slow motion.
“What kind of stuff are you into,
anyway?” The gurgly roar is that of
coffee crashing between his gums.
"Friday, we’re after criminals, not
people who paint excrement on
statues; get the idea?”

THE PHEROMONAL FOUNTAIN

123

"Check it anyway,” I insist.
“And tty to huny. They’re lofting
Helium Maid in less than an hour.”
“Lofting the what — oh, never
mind. Hang in there, boy.”

I wait and wait while MacGu ire’s
other and lesser assistants are pre-
sumably blazing down the laser
tubes in search of obscure facts for
that clackering tick-tock of a surro-
gate fountain-sitting in the nation's
helium capital.

Then MacGuire is back. He
sounds tight. He sounds excited.
“Listen, Friday. I've got a chopper
wanning up on the roof and an Air
Force jet standing by at Carter
Field. Don’t do anything dll I get
there.”

"Hey, what about it?”

“Just like I suspected,” he says.
“The day before each strike, the
fountains were touched up."

“Just like who suspected?” I ask,
but he's already gone.

People have gathered, many of
them dressed for the parade that is
to follow Helium Maid’s lofting and
descent by green (for money)
parachute.

I thread my way through a group
of high school teenies dressed like
vessels, pumps, compressors — to
impersonate a refinery, 1 guess.
They talk a grunt-twat-titter talk un-
like any patois stored in my lingo
lobes.

Bands tty approximations of
Do-Re-Mi.

Three hanied nuns, carrying fold
ing chairs, nudge a pride of totter-
ing senility toward an advantageous
spot along the curb of 47th Street.

The mobile speaker’s platform is
being backed into place on the wide
expanse of lawn next to my foun-
tain. The hiss of air cushior
generators is such the crowd plugs
up its ears.

I spot Helium Maid’s throne in
process of inflation from a huge sil-
very sphere over by the tennis
courts and not far from it the
Helium Maid’s colorful van sur-
rounded by young things holding
autograph books.

I position myself near the
fountain — but not too near. If my
guess is right, this place won’t be
safe in, oh, twenty minutes or so.
It's 10:10 in the morning.

At precisely half past the hour the
phenomenon begins. It’s as if an
invisible call had gone out from the
fountain. At first in the immediate
vicinity of the water-dolphin-horse-
and-maid — and then spreading in
concentric waves — people turn.
They approach, haltingly at first,
then at quickstep, finally at a run.

I scramble to get out of the way,
but not until I’ve seen the first ar-
rivals. They stop at the water’s
edge. They look at each other,
foolishly grin; they turn about;
they’re puzzled and benumbed.
They start away and then turn back.

124

GALAXY

And then it is too Jate. People are
coining, faces like zombies.' They
press, they crush. A woman
screams. Someone falls into the wa-
ter. Others have already scaled the
sculpture and hang like grapes on
greenish bronze, clothing drenched,
skin glistening.

I move against this tide. I dodge,
weave, and flatten myself to fit be-
tween phalanxes of possessed. Run-
ning now I sec Helium Maid racing
for the fountain — a bouncy lass.
The fountain has caught her una-
wares. She wears a slip. Her feet
are bare. Half her head is still in
electrodes. She trails wire ripped
from the curlatron.

My head is full of interviews I've
seen and heard on tape in
Washington — people recounting this
experience, mumbling: Well, I,
well, I just, wetl, I dunno: it was an
urge, kinda. An excitement, like. A
hindenburg excitement. Like, uh,
well, I dunno. And then, on deeper
probing, they confessed to feeling
sexual excitement. Old people too.
They were the worst. Blushed like
virgins.

I am well into the Plaza before it
hits me. I’m not affected. But why?
Surrogates were made for love long
before they turned to spying. I’ve
got the circuits, hormone bags, and
all the outer paraphernalia. What do
I lack that people have?

But my circuits are jammed with
overload at the moment and I don’t
find the answer. I run on, seeking
criminals.

THE PHEROMONAL POUNTAlN

The Plaza is Spanish, its architec-
ture strictly controlled by the morte
main of some dead syndicate. A
large geography criss-crossed by
streets, five hundred meters long,
two hundred meters wide. Presently
the area is as empty as a town of
death. The sun alone sits on every-
thing, resting without motion: pink
marble, white stucco, black wrought
iron, brilliant glass, elegant mani-
kin, golden bakery, striped ice
cream parlor, parked cruisers, grey
streets, beige walks, green bushes.
My own agile steps make the only
sound.

Then I hear, coming from the
left, the shatter of a wall-sized piece
of glass; and instantly a metal
banger starts drumming on the bell-
like disk of some back alley burglar
alarm.

I duck and run, more or less
under cover — no wish to shuffle off
my immortal coils as yet. I stop,
peer, dart, and stop again. Yes,
yes. I see it up ahead: a carpeting
of silicate before a jewelry store;
and, lying on the sidewalk,
carelessly dropped, a jumbo of a
mallet on the end of a sturdy,
wooden shaft.

I tiptoe, crawl. Then, past a
gleaming icicle of window pane, I
look into the murk of the store —
and draw back stunned.

Banfield the “Tanker” is inside,
Banfield of the Institute. Still clad
in that macho leather, as on the

125

train. I look again. Sure stuff. The
man stands behind a counter, before
a pile of diamond ensembles
dumped from dark blue satiny
cases. And he is swallowing them,
one by one, like a man gulping oys-
ters.

Suddenly I’m in the grip of a
compulsion. I realize it has been
there all along. It began when I be-
held the emptiness of the Plaza. But
it takes hold of me with force now
that I see Banfield gulping.

Careless now, no longer con-
cerned with being seen, I enter this
store through the jagged hole. Glass
crunches underfoot but Banfield
does not even look up. In a second
I stand beside him. I too dump a
case of jewels on the counter. I too
start swallowing. I know I’ve been
betrayed — by Dr. Trubote and by
PPI. They treat me as if I were
Banfield: an ordinary surrogate. But
I’m not a lewd and vulgar Tanker;
I’m Friday. And I’ve got PSI.

We go from store to store, from
bank to bank. We smash and bum
through doors and locks. We find
the small and precious things:
pearls, diamonds, rolls of thousand
dollar bills. Special vessels inside
our trunk fill with the loot. We
don’t speak. We're on a special
program. We’re all intensity and
concentration. Not our will governs
but Trubote ’s. And behind Trubote
stands some shadowy client of
PPI’s.

And then both Banfield and I
sense that time is up. We part and
126

go our separate ways. Both of us
men> at different points with the
giant, mesmerized mob around the
fountain.

Soon hell breaks loose. The
crowd stirs then erupts. The thrall is
broken. People scream, rush, tram-
ple. Frozen policemen come alive,
recall their duties. Sirens start howl-
ing. Lights start to flash palely in
the sun.

I wander about, observing, stun-
ned. My PSI is wounded to the
quick. My illusions of autonomy,
efficiency, and decency are
shattered — like the many cruiser
wrecks that crowd the streets. I feel
ashamed, undone — like Helium
Maid, led by a solicitous group of
men back to her colorful van; she is
in tears. Her throne, near by, hangs
up into the air, partly inflated,
partly slack. Helicopters have begun
to buzz above.

Then I see MacGuire. He got
here — obviously just in time to
catch the fountain’s whammy. He
stands bedazed, hitting the side of
his head with the flat of his hand.
His eyes are a little out of focus.
He looks at me but doesn't see me.
His mouth is open, slack. At last
comes recognition.

“What happened?” he asks.

“You tell me,” I say. “I just
came out of it myself.” And that’s
no lie.

“You too?”

“Me too,” I say. “Me too,
brother.”

“Did they rob the joint?” he
GALAXY

asks, gesturing toward the Plaza.

I nod. “Think so. I think they
made quite a haul.’’

“Gopher goo,” he says, and his
eyes freeze a little with inward ap-
prehension. “Come on, Friday,” he
cries suddenly, “let's you and me
go and hang one on.”

“All right. But in a second. I
want to take a look at that foun-
tain.”

I lope off to take a look, heavy
with stolen goodies. Yes: all that
pigeon faecal matter dabbed on with
such care during the night is gone.
Rubbed off, dispersed. What did
they use to seal the stuff during the
night? A water-soluble polymer? A
time-decaying encapsulator sensitive
to humidity? To be discovered, to
be learned.

I watch MacGuire sopping up the
crop. One hour, two hours, three. I
learn what he is really like: a sad
sack and a loser. He tells me all.
The alcohol robs him of inhibition.
Eighteen reprimands, four demo-
tions. Five transfers to shield the
Bureau from embarrassment (I
gather). Two divorces. And he’s an
alcoholic, too: no query about that!

That stranded whale I sensed
some days ago begins to stink. Is
MacGuire the kind of man the FBI
assigns to crack a major crime
wave? Who is behind this thing?
And come to think of it: would PPI
send me on this mission pro-

grammed to take part in the looting
unless the client knew about it? PPI
is strictly neutral. All we do is
serve.

Well! I think. You’ve got me
figured wrong — Dr. Trubote, PPI,
FBI, and other secret clients. My
work means all to me. I won’t be
used. If you want me to steal and
rob while pretending to be solving
crimes — okay; but tell me in ad-
vance. I’m not just your ordinary
tool. I’ve got my pride.

I ponder the case, plot revenge,
and listen to MacGuire all in one.
We're in a darkish yum-yum place
full of shaven -headed space stumers
awaiting shipment to the Lunar
mines.

MacGuire is going on and on
about his youth. His coat is off, his
sleeves rolled up, his tie jerked
loose. He has regressed now to the
point I learn why his mother never
loved him, and he tells me how the
surrogate she rented to baby-sit him
at age five, the only being who ever
loved him, truly, the only being, a
sweet, wonderful Crossford T-14
from England (they don’t make
them like that anymore) — he pauses,
looks at me with an odd gleam
in his eyes, then goes on: “Well,
Friday, one day she fell in love
with a washing machine and left me
for a laundromat.”

This is supposed to be a joke,
one of those little diamonds of hilar-
ity MacGuire has been embedding
in the soft mush of his drunken
babble ail afternoon. He is like (hat:

THE PHEROMONAL FOUNTAIN

127

self-pitying, vindictive, and . . .
hilarious.

I don’t even pretend to be
amused, but he whinnies, gags,
sputters, and turns red it is so
funny — and ends up coughing with
such violence, I am obliged to
pound him on the back.

Then it’s 16:00 and a gong
sounds above the bar, whereupon
the space stunters start going yip-
pee!! They pound their glasses on
the tables.

Four in the afternoon in this
blue-law region means that surro-
gates can start soliciting, and here
they come, slinking, hipping,
slithering out of the greasy shadows
of the back — eight third rate Mat-
tress Ferns in phosphorescent
gowns. The space stunters have
gone gorilla.

All eight, in turn, come by our
table. They lean across, warbling
their invitations. I hear the defective
squeaking of cheap fragrance pumps
but can't smell the effluvium, hav-
ing no nasal circuits. MacGuire
shakes his head. Not in the mood. I
just stare to make them go away.

And then, zam! Something
whangs my PSI. 1 knew I’d get a
clue, some cow or udder (to use a
teenie phrase I heard this morning).
It was the squeaking of those fra-
grance pumps — and thinking of my
nasal circuits — and recalling all of a
sudden that article in Chronos about
that bordello dome in Vegas where
no human has ever refused a surro-
gate’s solicitation.

"Hey,” MacGuire cries when I
rise. "Hey, where you going?”

"West,” I say. "See you
around.”

Despite Dr. Trubote’s negative
programs, I'm going to solve this
crime, I think. My brain is like a
magnet. The oddments of evidence
act like iron filaments. They’re lin-
ing up nicely, pointing to a target.

I must regurgitate this loot in my
trunk and send it on to PPI. The
urge is great: it must be a pro-
grammed impulse. But after that I’ll
be light again, free again. I’ll take a
train. Will travel, will snoop.

“Pheromonal," 1 mutter, moving
toward the dial-a-door. “Phero-
monal!”

“Hey, buddy, can you spare a
ten-spot,” asks the thin, repulsive
bum. If I pay him I have the right
to beat him to a senseless pulp right
here and now amidst the green and
rolling lawns of Pomorama’s outer
reaches. He will bleed and vomit
nicely, too, and at the end he’ll
even ‘die.’

I pass him by. I’m here to visit
Madam Smith on business, not to
sample her dome’s delights.

The dome is not one dome but
ten, each shaped like a classic type
of breast. The guard told me to go
down Bushwack Lane, keeping to
the left, past Rape Valley to Pubes-
cent Groves. And then a sharp
right. I'll see it from there, can’t

128

GALAXY

miss it, the building with the hirsut-
sia bushes flanking (he pal pi door.

It's a long walk and a weary ar-
gument with six burly Bosses who
came from the same mold as me. But
at last they take me down and show
me into the boudoir of what
Chronos, in its usual style, called
the nation's foremost whoreticul-
turist.

She receives me, a very fat wom-
an, lying in a titanic hathtub. A
black ocean of trembling joy-gel
hides her massive charms.

“Hi," she says. She winks an
eye. “You’re cute, you know. You
want to work for me, do you?
You’re modified, ain’tcha? Very
nice. What does Bucks and Boys
want for a model like you?"

I seat myself on a naked, kneel-
ing, bent-over male (furniture by
the Marat-Sad Combine).

“Madam Smith,” I say, “I’m
here on federal business. I’m with
the FBI.”

“Oooh,” she cries and almost
rises, showing me her planetary
mams. But the joy-gel is too vis-
cous. “1 like you boys,” she says.
“I’m a patriot. Didn’t know they
used surrogates, is all.”

“Madam Smith,” I start again,
“what I’ve come to ask is this: the
perfume pumps used by your ferns
and bucks — they’re said to spread a
patented effluvium. It's supposed to
contain a proprietary ingredient. I’m
here to ask about that.”

Now she is suspicious. The pat-
tern of another personality invades

THE PHEROMONAL FOUNTAIN

her face. Her eyes turn hard.

“You’re not FBI," she says.
“Get out of here. I’ve got friends,”
she adds. “I got plenty of friends.
Don’t get ideas. Go on, pulverize.”
And the joy-gel trembles as she ges-
tures in its depths.

I’ve done research in preparation.
I can’t be bugged off just like that.
"Does the name Balthasar Jones
mean anything to you?”

I just named the secretary of ag-
riculture. Two days of frenzied dig-
ging told me he came by a whop-
ping block of Pomorama stock a
year ago. Soon after that Pomorama
rapidly climbed the bordello rank-
ings.

Ruby Smith is furious. Her eyes
blaze hate and fear. She doesn’t say
a word.

“Look here, Madam Smith,” I
say. “You can have it one of two
ways. You can tell me where you
get those pheromones and no more
will be said. Or you can refuse. If
you refuse. ...”

“We don’t use any phero-
mones.”

“Yes, you do. I saw six drums in
the basement of Impotence Nixed.
I’ve got samples here.” I show her
two phials. “All I want to know is
where this came from. It would
save me time.”

“You’ll never get out of here,”
she growls.

“Sure I will.” I decide to give
her a demonstration of my lesser
powers. My elbow lasers blaze
blinding streams, my knees shoot

129

flame, my unnaturally gaping mouth
emits a sonar that shatters every
piece of glass in sight.

“Stop iiiiiit!” screams Madam
Smith. She's ripped her arms out of
the gel and holds her ears.

“Where?” I ask. “Where does it
come from?”

“Beltsvillc. Beltsyille, Mary-
land.”

“The Ag Research Station?"

She nods. She's miserable.

Just then her Bosses come crash-
ing through the door. My lasers
blaze again, i walk out past smok-
ing metal wreckage, through clouds
of plastic fume.

I’m flying high — and in more
ways than one. Trobote should
never have betrayed me. The double
program in my lobes has opened up
the floodgates of my PSI. Maharishi
only knows what molecular
sieveries, what ion-exchange resin-
os j ties, what chemical catalities
the Doctor has set going. I feel a
stratospheric kiting in my brain. I'm
bent on deeds no surrogate has ever
dreamt.

I’m flying also in another sense.
An SST wings me toward the D.C.
Metroplex. I want to arrive unde-
tected, and who flies nowadays?
The tube trains are faster.

The plane is nearly empty. It’s
fuelled almost entirely by subsidies.
The travel faeiliation specialists
don’t even pretend to serve. Four

play cards toward the front. One
donned a skin-tight gym suit after
take-off and sits in the aisle nearby
engaged in yoga. I watch her.

She has contrived somehow to
put her left leg over her right shoul-
der. She listens to her knee. Her
arms are raised, her fingers flared.
Her index fingers touch her thumbs
making two cosmic eggs. Her eyes
are open and rolled back. I see the
moist whiteness of her eyes laced
with delicate arteries spreading like
the roots of some upside-down, in-
ternalized Kundalini tree.

Aesthetic circuits in my brain
sing some forgotten program: Oh
brave new world — such creatures in
it!

I muse and ponder, turning great
deeds this way and that. And time
flies. My yoga friend approaches,
but does not quite reach, samahdi,
when the engine pitch changes, lit-
tle bells ring, and we start our des-
cent.

As we come in for our landing,
the pilot comes on the intereom. He
directs our attention to a vast, red-
dish area clearly visible from the
left side — an area that looks sur-
rounded by something at least as
formidable as the Chinese wall. Oh,
yes. The pilot tells us all about
Godzilla.

I look down and see (he beast in
its hindenburg playpen. It looks
quite small, forlorn, and lonely
from this altitude. I see it in the
center, oblivious of the herd of cat-
tle sent in as an afternoon snack. It

130

GALAXY

sits unmoving. Its tiny eyes gaze
mournfully toward Japan.

I am not very much surprised
when I sec MacGuire at the gate.
He looks relaxed and almost gay.
He sports a flower in his lapel — no
doubt it squirts. Long before I reach
him, he holds out a hand, palm up.
But it's not a greeting.

“I’ll take those bottles now,” he
says. “Hand them over, boy.”
“What bottles? — And by the
way,” I ask, although I know the
answer, “how’d you know I was on
this plane?”

“The bottles,” he says. I reach
into a pocket and hand him two
phials. “You’re something else,”
he says, staring at the darkish liquid
in the containers. (The liquid hap-
pens to be Coke.) “You crossed
some awfully big animal, boy.
You’re in trouble, boy. But I ap-
preciate what you’ve done for me.”
“What did I do for you, Mac-
Guire?”

“You’ve got me off this case —
and boy, am I ever glad.”

He maneuvers so that the flower
in his lapel can squirt me in the
face, but I maneuver right back.

“Who put on the heat?” I ask.
“Balthasar Jones? Of Agriculture?”
The fun goes from his face.
“Don't ask me no questions and I’ll
tell you no lies,” he says, backing.
“By the way, call your boss. Tru-
bole, is that it? You’re fired too,

THE PHEROMONAL FOUNTAIN

friend. See you around.”

And he recedes, hand raised,
holding the phials.

My rented copter is hidden a
kilometer from here, and “here” is
the Beltsville facility of the Agricul-
tural Research Service, a cluster of
buildings with a large yard and tank-
age and machinery behind them.
One of the buildings dates way
back. It has a tower with a clock. I
rest in bushes waiting for the
wind — it blows in a southwesterly
direction, which is nearly perfect —
to drive that block of clouds way
yonder over the bright sickle of the
moon.

The place swarms with uniformed
guards. Lights probe about seeking
intruders, seeking me. The FBI, and
PPI; and Trubote and the higher-
ups; and no doubt also Balthasar
Jones, Secretary, Agriculture — they
all have guessed that I might be
a-lurking in these shadows.

Trubote sounded shocked over
the telephone when dutifully I
called him. “Stop this nonsense
about PSI, Friday,” he said — and I
could see his indignant features, the
grey, leonine head, the natty bla-
zered jacket. “You’re a robot and
you’ll do as you’ve been told. I
want you to report home by eve-
ning.”

“Yes, sir,” 1 said. — But damn it
all, I do have PSI. So here I am in
Beltsville and not back home at

131

PPI.

The cloud is coming — slowly. I
have time To record a few more ob-
servations, to tell the history of this
crime to my sphenoidal sinus.

Out here at Beltsville they do re-
search on pheromones — sex attrac-
lants. Started long ago, in the trou-
bled century, as a way to zap some
insect called the gypsy moth. But
research can never stop. Forward,
progress. If you can catch the little
pests, go for the big ones. Formu-
late new programs to fill in the
voids made by success. More
people, more budget. Bureaucracies
are just like surrogates. They never
die.

And then no doubt some love-
sick scientist or other, spumed by a
groove chick, went to work at night
on a little innovation of his own.
And management found out about
it. Slapped Top Secret on the files.
An Eyes Only envelope informed
the Secretary. Who knew how to
use the information. . . .

The cloud approaches, nibbles at,
then swallows up the moon. I reach
into my pocket and take out the real
samples of pheromone I took at
Ruby’s pleasure dome. I toss the
bottles and they burst on pavement.

Now it’s just a matter of time.
And here they come: uniformed
guards by the dozen, and people
from abandoned cruisers on the
street. They make a little mob. It's
not the Plaza, but it’s the same
idea. I pick up my blowtorch and
amble undisturbed toward the yard,

the tankage, in the back.

Soon I have found what I am
looking for. Three huge tanks, each
labelled “paint.” Some paint. One
is for women, one for men. The
third one holds an encapsulating
polymer with twelve hours of water
resistance. Perfect for fountains.

My circuits are in gleeful excita-
tion. I activate my blowtorch and
start to carve a good-sized hole in
the side of Tank Number One.

The pink of dawn reveals the city
down below. Not a spirit, not a
soul; no flatus in the seat of power.
Washington is empty. Hot lines,
cold lines, lukewarm lines: all dead.
They’re all gone to Beltsville: man
and woman, young and old, natives
and diplomats. I’ve got it all to my-
self. I survey it from my lonely
chopper. Then I bend the rotor
slightly and my hover becomes a
forward rush. I'm headed for the
zoo.

I got the notion in the airplane as
we landed — was it yesterday?
Godzilla and I will soon be joining
forces. If my guess is right, the
poor beast, like me, has PSI.

I’ll ride safely on its scaly neck
directing its exploits. We’ll swallow
up this city in all leisure. An FBI
burger will start us off. Then a dish
of mashed Congress. A mess of
agencies, maybe. The White House
for desert. And if we get thirsty,
we’ll drink the Potomac. ★

132

GALAXY

AW

GALAXY
BOOKSHELF

Spider Robinson

Robert A. Heinkin, Stranger In His
Own Land, George Edgar Slus-
ser, Newcastle/Borgo Press, 60
pp., $1.95

Experiment Perilous: Three Essays
On SF, Bradley, Spinrad, Bester;
Algol Press, 34 pp., $2.50
Anatomy of Wonder, ed. Neil Bar-
ron, R. R. Bowker Co., (Xerox),
471 pp., price unknown
The Happening Worlds of John
Brunner, ed. Joseph W. De BoH,
Kennikat Press, 216 pp., $12.95
Double , Double, John Brunner, Bal-
lantine, 222 pp., $1.25
Quicksand, John Brunner, DAW,
221 pp., $1.50

Under Pressure, Frank Herbert,
Ballantine, 220 pp., $1.50
A Scanner Darkly, Philip K. Dick,
Doubleday, 220 pp., $6.95
The Best of C. M. Kornbluth, Bal-
lantine, 338 pp., $1.95

I was a backward child, but then
so were most of us.

You see, I grew up in a rather
more Golden Age than this, an era
when there were so goddamn few
anthologies that virtually every one
of them was fabulous. Science fic-
tion may be a long time recovering
from the present surfeit of an-
thologies: the average quality has
grown so miserably thin that I’m
certain we have turned off by the
thousands the potential readers who
could have been hooked forever by,
say, Masters' Choice or Tomorrow
the Stars or any of the magnificent
Conklin collections — if only they
could find the damned things under
all those hundreds of dreary anemic
assemblies thumbtacked together to
getacontractmakeabuck (I'm still
waiting to see a six-million -word
antho-antho called The Best of
Roger Elwood).

BOOKSHELF

133

It was a black day when the first
alleged anthologist began inviting
submissions. There’s a place for
slush piles, a place for experiment-
ing: the magazines, whose readers
are a priori prepared to accept that,
and who have planked down their
money (considerably less money)
for not only the stories, but for the
up-to-date science and review and
fanac features, for a reasonably cur-
rent knothole into the world-of-sf
As It Happens. But that is not what
you want to leave lying around the
library for inquisitive young minds
to stumble over.

If the first eight stories in an
antho bore me, I may keep reading
(because, say, the ninth is a
Kombluth and I know what that
means) — but a bright eight-year-old
will long since have wandered off
to where they keep the early Saint
stories, two aisles over. So, quite
likely, will any newcomer to sf.

1 got hooked on sf in the library,
back when nine anthos out of ten
(the library's total sf section at the
time) were pure dynamite (mostly
because they were so few, because
anthologies of sf stories were a new
innovation and each anthologist had
available to hand literally hundreds
of hitherto-uncollected gems from
which to select. Which is not to
take away from Groff Conklin or
Bleiler & Ditky or Laurence
Janifer — they got there fustest with
the mostest). At the age of six I
was given a copy of Rocket Ship
Galileo, and the top of my skull

came off. 1 raced to the library,
where I had been told I might locate
more books by Mr. Heinlein, and I
found them — and curiously enough,
they were all lumped in with a
buncha other books that also had a
yellow rocketship pasted on the
spine. In some way these other
books must be like Hein-
lein . . . and so I tried one. Invad-
ers of Earth, a Conklin antho.
Wham! 1 was a science fiction nut
(not an “sf fan” — it was years be-
fore I learned that fandom existed).

I shudder to think what might
have happened if I had selected
something of the quality of the av-
erage Roger El wood quickie. Why,
I might today be working for a liv-
ing!

(The few really good anthologists
working today are having one hell
of a time selling anthos now — the
publishers know that Anthos Don’t
Sell, and they can prove it. Nobody
bought all those El woods . . . well,
maybe they bought one.)

What all this leads to is that I
spent the years from six to, oh, six-
teen just absorbing antho after antho
and finding them solid, letting do-
zens of monumentally Great sf
stories be imprinted forever on my
brain before I was old enough to
have the sense to make not of title
and author. I told you I was a
backward child.

And 1 think — here at last is the
point — I think that a majority of you
did too: grew up, or at least ab-
sorbed most of your early sf, at

134

GALAXY

about the same time period. Simply
because those were the best times
for catching the attention of new
readers, because never again since
then has sf looked so good from the
outside, been so attractive to a
neophyte (and I suppose you could
throw in the postwar Baby Boom to
nail the argument down).

And I further suspect that like me
many of you remember the
stones — but not always the title and
author. Because in them Golden
Days of Library Loitering, there
was no need to remember authors’
names: just pick up the next antho
and they’ll all be winners. Not until
times go lean did I get hip to the
prudence of following a good byline
(and nowadays I agree with Harlan
that the reason they put title and au-
thor in the biggest type is because
they’re the most important words in
the piece. Right up there on page
one, see?). I wish I had a quarter
for every letter I’ve gotten saying,
“There’s this story I read many
years ago about this planet where
night only comes once every
thousand years and they all go
gonzo and do you know what it’s
called and who wrote it and where 1
could get it?” (If you don’t know,
see next month’s column.)

Well, every so often I stumble
across one of those forgotten Im-
mortals and scream, *7 know this
damn story! So that's who it was!”
And I suspect you do too.

So I’m going to try something — a
little bit of a game. Somebody (a-

gain, I dunno who— some an-
thologist of yore) once made a
dandy game out of running only the
first lines of the first stories of sev-
eral sf Masters — and challenging
readers to name title and author. I
propose turning that around a bit. In
the last several months I have run
across over a dozen stories that
were, for me, memorable, that
burned themselves into my cortex at
a tender age and still resurface oc-
casionally in my consciousness.
Although none of them is of
the “tomato surprise” persuasion
(whieh the late Rod Serling over-
used so heavily in Twilight Zone),
each happens to have an extremely
memorable last line, which ought to
re-evoke the story for you if it’s in
your files at all .

So that’s the pitch: I give you the
last line, you give me title and au-
thor. No fair peeking ahead to the
end of the column — keep a list and
compare when you get there. The
first couple:

1) “Here they come, with an in-
sulting thick rope.”

2) “It is a word which will
explode this planet like a stick of
dynamite in a rotten apple."

I’ll keep sprinkling them in there,
over the next few pages, and you
see how many ring bells. I have a
secret plan . . .

All right: now that I’ve ranted
about the inflationary devaluation of

BOOKSHELF

135

the anthology, let’s go on to SF vs
Academe.

They’ve been going round on that
one for a couple o’ years now, ever
since sf went respectable, and a
considerable amount of waste heat
has been produced thereby. On one
side you got academicians insisting
that sf should be judged by the
standards of LitCrit, and on the
other side you got Dena Brown say-
ing, “Let’s put sf back in the gutter
where it belongs.”

It should now be obvious where I
stand: seven years as an English
major have convinced me that liter-
ary criticism butters no parsnips. I
used to think it was only harmless,
like masturbation, but now I don’t
anymore. I’ve seen too many people
who can really write seduced into
producing Enduring Masterpieces
instead of good stories, conned into
writing to please the LitCrit squad
because their egoboo sounds the
most authoritative (it is, I will
grant, the only real assurance that
people will be forced to read your
works long after anyone’s interested
in them).

And so I tend, at least, to vjew-
with -alarm rather than point- with -
pride when the literary establish-
ment moves in on sf. Many a great
restaurant has been destroyed by
being discovered, and come to
think, the Indians must feel much
the same about North America.

And sure enough, here comes a
missionary to tell me that my gods
are inferior. George Edgar Slusser,

author of Robert A. Heinlein,
Stranger In His Own Land, spends
fifty-six pages proving that Heinlein
can’t write his way out of a paper
bag, and then spends three full
pages listing Heinlein’ s book publi-
cations alone (if he had added
magazine sales, I calculate he’d
have needed five more pages, and
anthologizations would most surely
have added another ten or twelve).
The irony of the juxtaposition ob-
viously escapes him.

As near as I can figure his open-
ing argument, Slusser is offended
because you couldn't graph an out-
line of a Heinlein plot and come out
with nice regular curves and repeat-
ing patterns. The hoary old barba-
rian bestseller violates the precious
Dramatic Unities — tsk tsk. From
there Slusser uses all the classic
tools of LitCrit-As -Hatchet work,
(quotation out of context, non
sequitur, post hoc ergo propter hoc
reasoning, outright distortion and
plain stupidity) to show that Hein-
lein is an immature, irresponsible,
morally bankrupt bungler who
wouldn’t be allowed to run loose in
a sane world.

Well.

I find this pamphlet as significant
as an urchin defacing the base of
the Taj Mahal, and if you want to
pay as much to read it as it would
cost you to score the paperback of
Stranger In A Strange Land, you go
right ahead. I can’t give it a Gaiaxa-
tive Award — because I’m not at all
certain that Slusser knew better —

136

GALAXY

but I will give it the John Shirley
Award for Pointless Hostility.

On the other hand, respectability
has its advantages.

For one thing, it provides a
forum from which sf authors can
rap about their craft. Some hold this
to be a curse, too, on the theory
that any verbiage about writing is a
waste of time, and that a writer
doing so is wasting valuable time.
But I find writers’ shoptalk at least
as interesting as anybody else’s, and
anybody’s shoptalk is the most in-
teresting stuff on earth.

So I rather enjoyed Experiment
Perilous: Three Essays On SF by
Marion Zimmer Bradley, Norman
Spinrad and Alfred Bester. All three
originally appeared in Algol, a
semipro fanzine I know only by its
(formidable) reputation (since sf
pros can’t afford fandom), and all
three are tasty. I didn’t agree with
everything Bradley had to say
about the New Wave/Old Wave
dichotomy, but I did agree about
95% of the time, and was impressed
enough that I’m going to go back
and take a much closer look at her
fiction. Spinrad ’s saga of the
Finagle-inspircd disasters surround-
ing the publication of Bug Jack
Barron delighted me — 1 always
enjoy hearing other writers’ pub-
lisher-horror-stories; it helps persuade
me that it isn’t me they’re out
to get. And Alfie’s piece on the

TO SERVE MAN

Though Damon Knight didn't
write this Cookbook for People,
his famous story inspired it:
Homme Bourguignon, Chili
Con Hombre, Minceman Pie
... 71 outrageous recipes,
lightheartedly illustrated: hard-
covers, $6.95 at bookstores or
postpaid from:

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Box 8243 Philadelphia pa l9ioi

creation of The Demolished Man —
although way too compressed —
contained rather more vitamins than
the usual Bester essay.

I can't honestly say I liked it
$2.50 worth — but if you’re one of
these affluent fans I keep hearing
about, why don't you check it out?
On second thought, why don’t you
send me $2.50? Then I could afford
to subscribe to Algol.

(I shouldn’t say things like that.
Have you heard the true story about
the guy who ran classified ads say-
ing only, "Send your dollars now,
to . . .” with his address? He made
a fortune hefore the Post Office shut
him down.)

BOOKSHELF

137

Time for a couple more Last
Lines. Do you recognize;

3) “The wolves who were then
burning their way through Ihe
Ozarks, utterly without opposition,
the wolves were the Martians, under
whose yoke and lash we now en-
dure our miserable existences.”

4) “Whereat a great and far-off
voice was heard, saying, Poop-
poop-poopy, and it was even so;
and the days of Poopy Panda were
long in the Sand.”

Onward.

So respectability also means that
ihe librarians come running, and at
that I rejoice; if we’re very lucky,
library science may one day save
our race from drowning in informa-
tion (see Heinlein's encyclopedic
synthesists). And here we have
Anatomy of Wonder, a truly fabu-
lous compilation of data. It bills it-
self on the cover as “bibliographic
guides for contemporary collec-
tions,” private or institutional, and
for that it will serve excellently. But
it also features such valuable re-
search aids as a bibliog of books on
sf history, criticism and biography;
a bibliog of other extant bibliogs.
indexes and teaching aids; magazine
and book review indexes; pro-
periodicals list (with editor-and-
address); a list of awards (the only
section in the book hopelessly man-
gled and virtually useless) and other
goodies.

I did pick out a few choice errata
to prove I'd really read (at) it (poor
Rick Stembach’s name gets misspel-
led again on page 233, and on the
same page they have Pangbom’s
lovely Eve choosing between two
men instead of three), but mostly 1
was impressed and enlightened and
informed all to hell. I learned, for
one instance, that Kenneth Jemigan
at the Iowa Commission for the
Blind Library, 4th and Keosauqua
Way, Des Moines, Iowa 50309
maintains about six hundred sf titles
in Braille or recording and will lend
same to blind fans. I urge any and
all of you to read something good
onto cassette and mail it thence —
although you should probably query
first to avoid redundancy.

I learned lotsa stuff, and probably
will every time I come back to this
excellent reference work. The bib-
liography of sf novels runs from
1516 to today and is damned
thorough — and the capsule descrip-
tions thereunto appertaining are re-
markably trenchant. An invaluable
aid to anyone who (God knows
why) wants to study sf, and also to
librarians, collectors and neofans
looking for a thumbnail guide to the
representative major works of the
field. Thank you, Neil Barron and
friends.

Neither of these is a Last Line.
One is a fragment of one, and one
is a line from near (he end (the last

GALAXY

line would give it clean away, and
this is at least as memorable):

5) "... and that what clever
people have not yet learned, some
quite ordinary people have not yet
entirely forgotten.” (Hint: “Whomp
year.”)

6) “Angie smiled with serene
confidence a smile that was to
shock hardened morgue atten-
dants.”

One last tilt at Academe should
lead us gracefully into the fiction.

It happened that 1 received a re-
view copy of The Happening
Worlds of John Brunner concur-
rently with about eight of Brunner's
books — and since Baen is always
after me to come up with a decent
lead or theme (or even in indecent
lead or theme) I decided to review
’em all at once: an Overview of
Brunner. But I immediately lost the
first book, and by the time Kennikat
Press had rather testily mailed me
another copy, I had become too im-
patient to wait, and read most of the
Brunners, reviewing them here one
at a time. Furthermore, last month’s
Harlan Ellison extravaganza has
convinced me that Overviews are
too damn much work and too little
fun. So instead of a whole column
of Brunner, you get Happening
Worlds plus two leftover pa-
perbacks.

Editor Joseph W. DeBolt was one
of the contributors to Anatomy of

Wonder. Herein he has collected ten
essays on Brunner’s work, divided
into four sections (“Biography,”
“Prose & Poetry,” “Economics &
Politics” and "Science & Technol-
ogy”), plus a James Blish preface
and a lengthy response from Brun-
ner himself. These last two I liked
immensely, and 1 enjoyed De Bolt’s
own introduction to Brunner and his
works. The essays themselves (all
by men, all of whom happen to be,
like De Bolt, professors at Central
Michigan University) gave me some
trouble though. Not that they
weren’t insightful — at times bril-
liantly so — or cogently stated. The
problem is that to appreciate nearly
every one of them, you have to be
familiar with virtually every word
Brunner ever wrote — and I am not.
In too many instances I’m not sure
if I agree with the critic or not, and
there's nothing more boring than
discussion of a book you haven’t
read (unless it’s during an English
class and you’ve just been called
on).

But this is certainly not the es-
sayists’ fault — how else can you do
it? — and if you are a Compleat
Brunnerian, this book ought to be
right up your alley. And again, I
enjoyed all the insider shoptalk
kind a stuff.

Unless you’re enough of a Brun-
ner freak to want to buy the above,
you probably won’t much want

BOOKSHELF

139

Double, Double (which is not an
Ace double but a Ballantine single).
Not that there’s a whole lot wrong
with it — there just ain’t all that
much right with it. It reads like a
B- or possibly a C-movie, and I’m
sure they’ll love it down at the
drugstore. Interstellar Menace meets
a British rock group. It’s a shame
writers have to do this stuff to stay
alive.

Ah. but Quicksand] There’s one
of the most amazing and eccentric
books in the field, closer to
mainstream than anything else I’ve
seen from Brunner. Parts of it de-
light me, parts thrill me, parts de-
press me (the parts that are sup-
posed to, I mean), and the only
complaint I have is with the rotten
thumbtacked ending, which insists
on wrenching the book back into
traditional science fiction at the cost
of grace and plausibility — an out-
standingly bad tomato surprise.

The book mostly concerns itself
with the psychological deterio-
ration and collapse of a young
psychologist, brought on by expo-
sure to a lovely young patient who
is either quite mad or a shipwrecked
time-traveler. Her tales of the world
she comes from — even though he
considers them fantasy — point up to
him the essential boredom and
meaninglessness and opression of
his small-town life, and in the end
he comes to believe in her world,
not because his logic proves it to be
libera] truth but because it's such an
attractive fantasy. And because he

likes her legs — eventually he
springs her from the bughouse he
works in and flees the country with
her, with predictably disastrous re-
sults.

Right there you got the makings
of a fine, poignant novel — but
Brunner (apparently in the interests
of kicking his poor hero one more
time while he’s down) throws in a
switcheroo that would have de-
lighted Hugo Gems back and an-
noyed hell out of me.

I still recommend it — in the main
it’s an excellent novel — but I have
seldom seen such a dumb ending.

Last Lines:

7) "The last thing he learned was
that death is the end of pain.”

8) "Julio just said: ‘Don’t gell,
Bee!.’ And then winked.”

Speaking of CoD (Crud of the
Denouement), boy does this next
one give me trouble.

I will say out front that I enjoyed
reading Frank Herbert's Under
Pressure, and even stayed up rather
late to finish it. But it’s got so
many enormous holes in it that it
would take almost a whole column
to list them all.

A random sample: the which-is-
the-spy? business that kept me read-
ing with such interest turned out to
be a wet firecracker. There was a

140

GALAXY

spy, but with no conceivable func-
tion except to blow himself up with
everyone else on the submarine. He
tries this at the beginning of the
voyage, fails, and never again tries
that or anything — he has no plan,
and his job could have been done
by a dockhand. (He says he didn't
kill the man in the reactor room —
but then who did smash the com-
municator that could have saved the
man, and why?) The solution to the
mystery of why-have-the-last-ten-
subs-all-failed-to-come-back? — not
spies, something else — struck me as
trite and simplisticly contrived — as
did the hero’s Ingenious Solution.
The conspiracy to dethrone Bu-
Security’s power and influence,
revealed at the end, seemed alarm-
ingly like what produced Bu Security
in the first place (ah, but we’re the
Good Guys). Most extraordinarily
of all, the hero, Ensign Ramsey, al-
though we are told that he has a
wife and two children, never once
thinks of them in the entire nerve-
shattering course of the voyage,
never even makes reference to them
in his thoughts (“tell my wife my
last thoughts were of other things").
The wife is dutifully hauled on-
stage at beginning and end, and
their relationship is described as
deep and loving, but she never be-
comes real — and never at any time
do they discuss or mention their
children.

This is a convincing psychologi-
cal drama? The fact that it attempts
to be is the book's greatest prob-

lem, for there are no real people in
it, only psychological types and
syndromes and constructs walking
around on legs. They interact fine;
but they don’t breathe worth a
damn. I didn’t believe the hero's
mental collapse at the end; in fact, 1
didn’t believe much about the book.
Using atomic subs to steal foreign
oil in underwater tugballoons a mile
long? Oil that the enemy itself
hasn't noticed right under its nose?

Attempting to make the story
"realistic” is the book's second
worst problem. This is done by an
attention to physical detail and au-
thenticity of technical jargon so in-
tense and plausible that half the
time I couldn’t understand what the
hell they were talking about. None
of the jargon ever got explained, so
it shot right past me, and it ought to
shoot right past anyone not familiar
with the nuts-and-bolts design lay-
out and the operational routine of a
four-man atomic sub-tug. (Are
you?) Herbert could have taught me
a lot about, say, the specifics of
radiation overdose and treatment —
but that would have interrupted all
the masterful suspense and pacing,
and so all he told me was what a
man in a hurry would call the hypo
required.

I agree that “psychological
novels” ought to be written — but
their Scylla and Charybdis are
Samuel Delany's Triton — which
was quite logical, plausible (within
its assumptions) and consistent, but
dull as hell — and Under Pressure,

BOOKSHELF

141

which is exciting nonsense.

It’s also a twenty-ycar-old book,
for which one should make some
allowances — but none of the weak
points are the kind that time ex-
cuses. There’s nothing worse than
an unbearably suspenseful story that
fails to deliver at the end.

A First Line:

9) “He had quite a rum-blossom on
him for a kid, 1 thought at first.”
And a Last Line:

10) “And Roy land would have to
try to avoid answering him very
sharply: ‘Yes. This once we damn
well do.’ ”

I understand this latest Phil Dick
novel, A Scanner Darkly, is the first
he’s written without the aid of
speed, and appropriately enough it’s
largely a dialectic on the ruinous
cost of prolonged drug abuse.
There's a dedication at the end to
fifteen friends of Dick’s who’ve de-
stroyed themselves with dope, list-
ing the extent of damages each in-
curred (seven are dead, three
are permanently psychotic, like that)
— Dick calls this drug misuse
“a social error . . . not different
from your life-style, it is only fas-
ter.” “If,” he says, “there was any
‘sin,’ it was that these people
wanted to keep on having a good
time forever, and were punished for

that, but as 1 say, 1 feel that, if so,
the punishment was far too great,
and I prefer to think of it only in a
Greek or morally neutral way, as
mere science, as deterministic im-
partial cause-and -effect.”

The “sin,” / think, was that
these people wanted to be able to
keep on having a good time forever
by pushing a button, to rip off the
Universe for a good time without
paying for it. The “punishment"
for this error has always been as
drastic, and is not too great, and
cause-and-effect is any thing but
morally neutral.

That tirade aside, the book ain’t
exactly terrific either. It’s the some-
times fascinating, sometimes hilari-
ous, usually deadly boring story of
a federal narc so wasted by the
drugs he saturates his brain with
that he begins spying on himself,
and eventually busts himself. This
notion could have made an extraor-
dinary novellette — but only as wild
black humor. What Dick did was
waste enormous heaps of paper try-
ing to make it a plausible science
fiction novel, thereby destroying it.
He sets it in the future, but every
time his attention wanders it be-
comes the present. He throws in a
sort of “invisibility suit” which is
supposed to make the premise actu-
ally possible — if you’re willing to
believe that the feds hire narcs
without ever seeing them or know-
ing their names — and he adds a lot
of pseudoscientific hogwash about
the left and right hemispheres of the

142

GALAXY

hero’s brain each achieving au-
tonomy, for a truly split personality.
The end result is madness, but not
the divine kind. Along the way you
get to watch the background cast
who represent Dick’s doper friends
wittily and engagingly dose them-
selves into imbecility (a rather short
progression), and as the immortal
Jethro (of Homer And) once said,
“This sure don't fascinate me
none.”

Last (wo Last Lines:

11) “ ‘Yes, your divinity,’ said the
captains, without a trace of humor
in their voices."

12) “But they had never left a
solar system so gratefully or so
fast.”

Okay. Now we get down to it
(I’m putting this here instead of at
(be end to foil you bums who tried
to peek ahead when .1 told you not
to). How many of you figured out
what I’ve been doing? If you don’t
recognize any of the lines I've
thrown at you, then all (his has
been wasted. If you do recognize
the lines and know title and author
as well, they you already know
where I’m going. But if you find
most of those lines hauntingly fam-
iliar, naggingly evocative, but can't
identify (heir creator or title, then
you’ll be as surprised and delighted
as I was.

The stories, in order, are 1) “The
Rocket of 1955,” 2) “The Word of

Gum,” 3) “The Silly Season,” 4)
“The Advent On Channel 12,” 5)
“The Mindworm,” 6) “The Little
Black Bag,” 7) “The Marching
Morons,” 8) “Gomez,” 9) "The
Altar At Midnight,” 10) "Two
Dooms,” II) “The Adventurer,”
and 12) “The remorseful.”

And the kicker is that all twelve
were written by one man, Cyril M.
Kombluth, and (he second kicker is
that they are every one available
(along with seven more) in a single
collection, The Best of CM.
Kornbluth, for a mere $1.95. To
my earlier disparaging remarks
about anthos, note this as the mos(
spectacular exception imaginable —
this is the one (hat you should give
to that uncle or niece or fellow
commuter who’s been bugging you
to recommend some sf. I haven’t
enjoyed a book so much in years,
and will treasure it always. I fee!
like having it bronzed or something;
I mean it’s dynamite. Fred Pohl’s
brief “An Appreciation” intro to
his late collaborator moved me,
touched me, made me cry — and the
stories made me whoop aloud.

What Cyril felt about the war that
ultimately killed him is spelled out
in his last story, “Two Dooms” —
but I cannot but hate it. I just
finished reading the last book Cyril
ever wrote, The Man of Cold Rages
(as “Jordan Park.” non-sf. Pyramid
paperback), and oh God, if he had
lived, the wonders beyond imagin-
ing that would now be populating
the magazines and bookracks . . .

BOOKSHELF

143

If you don't remember each and
every one of the lines I fed you, go
ye forth at once unto the bookseller
and give him your tokens saying,
“Kornblulh Kombluth.” If you do,
go buy it anyhow — you'll enjoy re-
reading them.

God bless Ballantine for this re-
issue. Just when times was gettin’
lean in Anthoville . . .

Two leads, a buncha hatchet jobs
for the bloodthirsty, and a certified
masterpiece — are we done? Would I
ask if we were? Two more things to
mention before 1 stagger off to the
Home For The Criminally Con-
fused.

First, the column in which I men-
tioned Bakka. the Toronto-based sf
store that has a mail-order service,
has brought welcome feedback. A
lady named Valerie Barnebey from
Calais, Maine has hipped me to an
outfit called T-K Graphics, PO Box
1951, Baltimore MD 21203, which
has a mail-order operation compara-
ble in size and scope with Bakka,
and will avoid a hundred years of
hassle with the damned Customs
parasites for most of you. T-K’s
catalogue looks extremely good,
and it says here they will pay post-
age and handling on all orders. I
haven’t checked 'em out myself — as
a reviewer 1 don’t need mail
order — but I've asked around and
the word is good. Those of you up
there in the States, check it out for

yourself — and if you have any has-
sle, lemme know. T-K claims be-
tween fifteen and twenty thousand
people on their mailing list, so they
must be doing something right.

NEWS FLASH!!!

You forgot, didn’t you? 1 only
told you a year ago, and you forgot.
The assembled ranks of sf pub-
lishers are waiting to hear from
you — they would like to know what
sort of stuff you want them to pub-
lish. The writers are likewise in-
terested in knowing what sort of
stuff you’d like them to write. This
year’s World Science Fiction Con-
vention (“SUNCON”) will be held
at the Fontainbleau in Miami
Beach, Florida — but if you can’t man-
age to attend, you can still cast your
vote for the 1976 Hugo Awards,
from the comfort of whatever you
squat on when you’re at home. Just
send $7.50 for a supporting mem-
bership to WORLDCON 35, Box
3427, Cherry Hill, N.J. 08002.
They will send you, in addition to
other goodies, a bon a fide Hugo bal-
lot for you to fill in and mail. By
the time you read this, it’ll probably
be too late to nominate — but you
can at least vote. Let the voice of
the readers be heard in the land: tell
the nice publishers what you want
to see. (And remember, my first
novel Telempath happens to be eli-
gible this year.)

People who don’t vote for Hugos
deserve the sf they get. ★

144

GALAXY

JAY BRANDON

Up the Irish -
Quinlan forever!

The

All -Soul
is calling
Quinlan

The All-Soul is calling Quinlan.

That segment of the All-Soul de-
signated to chronicle the history of
the man known as Quinlan report-
ing:

The first recorded case of disci-
plinary action taken against Quinlan
occurred in [conference] 2005 A.D.,
Earth-time (Old Style). Quinlan had
just finished a term as a man who
had acquired a fair amount of
earthly goods without any discerni-
ble trade or occupation. His soul
had just returned to Interim when he
was called to a conference with that
precursor of the All-Soul, known at
that time to Quinlan as God.

Quinlan sauntered into the office.
"You retain human form?" God
asked Quinlan, sweeping stars aside
with his raised eyebrow.

"ft suits me," Quinlan shrugged,
and crossed his legs.

“No matter,” God concluded
wisely. Any being who dwells only
on Quinlan’s small failings can be-
come bogged down in trivialities for
lifetimes.

"Quinlan,” continued the Deity,
“your case concerns me.”

“Don't worry about a thing,”
Quinlan responded. “As soon as I
can get suited up again I’ll be out
of your hair. I don’t intend to hang
around Interim very long.”

"That is part of what concerns
me. Quinlan, what did you do for a
living during this last term?” (
"Well, it’s a little complicated.”
“I’ll lake the time to figure it
out.”

"Well, basically I was involved
in the reapportionment of re-
sources.”

"Financial resources?”

“And other kinds.”

“I see.”

“You’d be surprised at the terri-
ble inequities that prevail on Earth
these days. Some people got it all,
and the rest are trying to hang on to
nothing. The rich get richer and the
poor get shat on.”

“You’ve always been quite a
phrasemaker, Quinlan."

“Uh, excuse that. I got carried
away.”

“Not at all. You were saying?”

“Right. Well, when I’d see some
poor sou! laboring under the burden
of just ’way too much money, or
land, or stock, or whatever, I’d just
do my best to help him out, and
pass the surplus on to some who
weren’t quite so well off in terms of
earthly goods. 1 really pity rich men
on earth. It's easier for a camel to
pass through the eye of a needte,
you know ...”

“Yes, Quinlan, I made that one
up myself. So your job was basi-
cally redistribution of goods.”

“Exactly.”

“Becoming, in the process, a
rich man yourself.”

“Well, I had a lot of overhead.
And I don’t work cheap. If you
don’t value yourself, no one else
will.”

“Quinlan, you were a con man."

“You’ve been talking to my de-
tractors.”

140

GALAXY

“That’s hard to avoid doing,
here.”

Quinlan shrugged.

“Here’s why I called you, Quin-
lan. 1 just don't think you’re mak-
ing any progress. 1 don’t think
you’re learning anything.”

“In this last lifetime I lived to be
eighty- seven, against the express
wishes of some pretty powerful and
nasty men. I must have learned
something.”

God shook His wearying head.
“I’m not talking about earthly wis-
dom, Quinlan.”

“To each his own. Or His own.”
“You mentioned earlier that you
were planning to go right back out.
I don't think that's a good idea.
Take a century or so and ponder
your past lives. At least a century.”
“Hey! Hey, I can’t do that. I’ve
gotta get back right now!”

“Why now, Quinlan?”

“Listen, it’s a very critical time
there now. As You well know,
there's a crisis point in every civili-
zation, when it becomes a race as to
whether or not the inhabitants will
blow up their planet before they
manage to get off it. That’s where
Earth is now. I’ve got to be there to
help out.”

“You want to go to earth so you
can get off Earth?”

“Get off, and take some good
people with me.”

“That’s very laudable, Quinlan.”
Quinlan fidgeted while the Deity
thought.

“ALl right, Quinlan, I'll let you

go back as soon as you want. But
only under certain restrictions.”

“Hey, I get to pick what I want,
as long as I’ve got enough karma in
my account. That’s the rule.”

“We may make an exception in
your case. What did you plan to go
back as?”

“Well, there's a man right now
in Texas who’s trying to corner the
bourbon market. I figure he'll make
it, in about twenty years. And his
wife’s pregnant, though he doesn’t
know it yet — ”

Quinlan stopped as he perceived
that the ponderous head was shak-
ing. “No?” he said.

“Not this time,” said the Deity.
“I want you to leant humility, and
to gain a sense of community. I’m
going to send you back as a
Siamese twin.”

Quinlan recoiled. “Um — With
whom were you thinking of joining
me?”

“Let Me see, I believe Biggers is
looking for a new term.”

“Biggers! Biggers! His last term
he lived to be fifty, and died a vir-
gin!”

God nodded proudly. “He is very
holy. He has acquired almost
enough karma to join Us.”

“You’re putting a watchdog on
me,” Quinlan said, and stood in
thought. “All right,” he said fi-
nally. “I’ll do it, but I’ve got to be
Irish.”

“Very well. There’s an Irish
family living in Yugoslavia right
now — ”

THE AU-SOUL IS CALLING QUINLAN

147

“Near the border?” Quinlan
asked quickly, and was answered by
a slow shaking of the head.

"Make it America, and you’ve
got a deal.”

The Deity stared hard at the
dealer, and finally said quietly,
“America then.”

"Good,” said Quinlan, “I’ll go
get ready.” He stopped on his way
out. “We gonna be joined at the.
uh, elbow?"

“The hip, 1 think.”

“Ah well," replied Quinlan. He
started to hurry out, then stopped
again. “A few minutes ago,” he
said, “You referred to Yourself as
Us. Have You already been —
joined?”

God nodded. “A very few have
achieved that blessed reward, Quin-
lan. There are also saints, and
near-saints, on Earth at this very
moment.”

“Uh huh,” said Quinlan, and he
was gone.

God dismissed the incident from
His mind until later in His heavenly
day.

“Did Quinlan take my Siamese
twin offer?” He asked an assistant
off-handedly.

“Oh yes,” replied the angel.
“He and Biggers have been there
for — ” He consulted a card. “ —
twenty years now.”

“And what is Quinlan doing?"

The angel consulted the card once
more. “He’s in medical school.
Wants to be a surgeon. He’s
specializing in — ”

“ — surgical removal of Siamese
twins,” the Deity finished.

“Hey, that’s right. I have a feel-
ing he’s going to be pretty good at
his work, too.”

"I’m sure he’ll succeed.”

“Yeah, and about that. Chief,
we’ve been geting some pretty
steady prayers from Biggers, asking
that he does.”

God nodded sadly.

"You know, Chief, before he
went down this time, Biggers bad
almost enough karma in his account
to reach Nirvana. And after twenty
years with Quinlan 1 think he’s
earned it. But the man’s about to
have a breakdown. We may have to
yank him early, just like last time.”
God gave His approval.

“But wait,” He said, “until
Quinlan has completed his medical
training.”

Little more was heard of Quinlan
for some time thereafter, until one
day, millenia later, when he was
found in the watting room at Inter-
im. Quinlan rubbed his eyes and
looked around him at the other
quietly waiting souls. “Boy, I didn’t
get enough this time,” he said.

“Enough what?” the soul next to
him asked politely.

“Enough anything," Quinlan re-
plied. “I was a scout, ’way out on
the edge of the galaxy. You ever
spend any time in a one-man scout
ship?”

140

GALAXY

“I don't think so," said his
neighbor.

"God, it’s terrible. You’ve got
your movie tapes, your mail tapes,
your woman tapes, your dream
tapes and pretty soon you start feel-
ing like a tape yourself. I’ve got to
spend some more time with people
this time around."

“There aren’t going to be many
people to spend time with,” his
neighbor informed him.

"Yeah, I noticed that last time
out,” Quinlan said. “We’re kind of
dying out, aren’t we?”

“We’re Moving On.”

“Oh, is that it?”

The other nodded. The One is fil-
ling. More souls have passed on
through Nirvana than remain be-
hind.”

“No kidding,” said Quinlan.
“Well, when I get back I’m cer-
tainly going to do my part to per-
petuate the species.” He looked
closer at his neighbor. “Don’t I
know you?” he said.

“Quite possibly. 1 have been
many men and women.”

“Hey, 1 know. You were Willie
Sutton, weren’t you?”

His neighbor smiled faintly.
“Yes,” he said quietly, “I re-
member that term.” He laughed
ruefully. “That one set me back a
bit in my karma account.”

“Yeah, but it bought you some
good memories, I’ll bet.” Quinlan
laughed.

“Vivid ones, at least,” said the
former Sutton.

THE AU-SOUL IS CALLING QUINLAN

“Yeah, 1 knew you then. I
was — ”

“You were Quinlan. You’ve
been Quinlan every time.”

“Yes,” said Quinlan happily. “I
suppose I have been.”

“There’s one thing I’ve won-
dered about,” said Sutton suddenly.
"You know, don’t you? When
you’re back, you always remember
who you are.”

“Sometimes,” Quinlan admitted.
“Pretty often, in fact, lately.”

“How do you manage that?”

“I had it written into my con-
tract."

“Contract? You have a con-
tract?”

“You mean,” said Quinlan inno-
cently, “you don’t?” To drop that
line of inquiry, he added, “What
are you going back as this time?”

“I’m going to be a monk on
Arctunis.”

“Oh,” said Quinlan noncommit-
tally.

“Yes, I’m looking forward to it.
I think this will be my last trip.”

“Oh? Well, good luck. That
sounds real nice. That’s, uh, that’s
good” He nodded politely and
walked away, muttering again,
“That’s good.

“Good and depressing,” he
added when he was out of the
room. That’s when he got the call
again to report to the One.

God was no more. He was en-
hanced; He was More Than God.
He was well on His way to being
the All-Soul . Quinlan, still in his

149

mortal form, could not look at Him.
The Voice was deafening when It
said, “Quinlan!"

“I'm right here," said Quinlan.
“Quinlan,” said the Voice, more
quietly. “You have not many trips
left. Man is a dying species.”
"Really?” asked Quinlan in an
interested voice. “What’s going to
replace him? I’ve had my eye on a
tribe of very advanced apes in the
Arc heron system — "

The Voice was louder. “Nothing
is going to replace Man. There will
soon be no more use for him. Soon
all will be part of the All -Soul.”
“No kidding?” asked Quinlan,
hedging away. “So soon?”

“Time is at an end, Quinlan.
There will soon be no more need
for the testing and training pro-
gram.”

“Well, I hope You and the rest
of the All-Soul will have a nice
time. And be sure and look me up
some time. We can — ”

The Voice interrupted him. "You
will be a part of Us then, Quinlan.
Without you. We will be incom-
plete. And without Us, you will
have no existence."

"Uh huh,” said Quinlan. “And
what if I don’t want to join?”

The Voice became calm, grave.
“We will be calling you, Quinlan.
Henceforth, you will always hear
the Voice, calling you home.”
“Well, that’s fine,” said Quin-
lan. “You keep calling, and when
I'm ready — ”

“Quinlan,” said the Voice, as

Quinlan turned away. “You were
made for Us. You were only born
in order to come Home again some-
day.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

It was immediately after this
meeting that Quinlan made his dar-
ing daylight raid on the Karma
Bank, and went back as an al-
coholic, nymphomaniac million-
airess whose metabolism made it im-
possible for her to gain weight.

It took half a heavenly day to
track the culprit and assemble evi-
dence, and by that time Quinlan
was forty -five. It was decided to
leave Quinlan in her/his current
status, but to collapse her/his finan-
cial structure and render her/him
frigid. Quinlan appeared in Interim
a few heavenly minutes later, hav-
ing killed himself/herself by way of
some very cheap liquor in combina-
tion with exposure to the elements.

“Whooec," said Quinlan weakly.
He staggered through the waiting
room; a ridiculous exaggeration,
since he no longer had a physical
system with which to circulate al-
cohol.

Sentence had already been
passed, and Quinlan was taken
away. “Did you have enough of
everything this time?” asked the
Voice, before he was out of sight.

“Willie?” asked Quinlan, squint-
ing in the direction of the One.

"Willie is a part of Us now,” re-
sponded the Voice gravely.

“So long, Willie,” Quinlan
called, and he was led away.

150

GALAXY

At the end of his sentence, when
Quinlan appeared once more before
the One, there was no trace of the
physical in his composition. Quin-
lan was, like the One, a creature of
pure spirit.

“Whew,*’ said Quinlan. “I
didn’t know You still had a Hell.
D’You know I was the only one
there?”

“Yes,” said the Voice.

“Well, what now?” asked Quin-
lan. “I’m ready to get back. This
time I’ll take any model you’ve got
for me. I want you to see that I'm
repentant and all. What have you
got, a hunchback? Leper? Screen-
writer?” His voice trailed off as he
looked up expectantly.

“All extinct,” said the Voice.
“All have come Home. All of
Man.”

Quinlan felt a chill. “Everybody?
Willie? Sally?” He began calling.
“Harry? Louise? Are you in there?
Where are they?”

“AH are here, Quinlan. All are
dissolved in the One.” The Voice
grew more ponderous. “We are the
All -Soul now, Quinlan. You have
no Home except here. It is time for
the joining.”

“You’re the All-Soul, then,”
said Quinlan, his panic gone. “Or
the All-But-One-Soul. But you
don’t need me. I’m going back. I
told You about that species of ape.
Send me back as one of them. In a
few thousand miilenia — ”

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THE ALL-SOUL IS CALLING QUINLAN

151

“It is not possible,’’ said the
Voice, Our Voice, calmly.

“Sure it is,” said Quinlan. “You
can do anything. Make me a muta-
tion. An ape with a mind. I’ll stay
with them forever,”

“You are not one of them, Quin-
lan. You are one of Us." We
reached for him.

“No!” screamed Quinlan. We
drew back in pain. “You can’t take
me if I’m not ready to go,” he
shouted. “I’m not one of You!

“Listen to me,” he went on,
growing calmer. “You’ve all for-
gotten. Forgotten what it is to be
what I am. A man. I am the
proudest thing in the universe. The
only thing that walks in the galaxy
and names himself. It doesn’t mat-
ter if I have two arms and legs or
tentacles growing out of my
forehead. As long as I live, and
breathe, and think and excrete and
speak what I think. I’m a man. And
I won’t give that up!” He was
shouting again.

“We are calling you to Us,” We
said, with some heat.

“1 won’t come,” said Quinlan
calmly. “Now or later. You’ll just
have to do without this one. This
soul is mine. And 1 won’t give it
up.

“You know what this reminds
me of?” he asked suddenly, smiling
at the memory. “This reminds me
of when I was taking drugs of one
kind or another. When I was sane
and sober, I knew what the world
was, and what I was in it for. I had

all (he answers. And then the dtug
would take over, and show me a
new reality. And suddenly I really
knew the answers. Logic I had
never seen before. And as long as
(hat feeling lasted, I knew that I
was the only man in the universe
that knew what it was all about.

“Then I’d come down, and my
fever wisdom became gibberish.
Until the next time. And I never
could figure out which point of
view was the right one.

“That’s how we are, You and
me. You know You’re right, and I
know I am. And I’ll never give up
my point of view.”

He stopped, and then suddenly
shouted again. “Listen to me, you
bureaucracy of souls. Remember
with me. Remember how it is to be
lonely, or to be with someone else
without engulfing each other. Or to
be by yourself and not mind it, to
relish the solitude.

“I can’t come with you,” he
sobbed. “Send me back, because I
can’t stay here. Take me,” he add-
ed, almost defiant again, and it’ll be
just like you swallowed a chicken
bone. For eternity. We’ll just be
choking on each other forever.

“Try to remember,” he trailed
off. “Some of you — Some of you
could remember if you try.”

We conferred hastily, and then
the Voice spoke to Quinlan again.

“We will grant you your request,
Quinlan. We will give you one
more term. One more lifetime, as
the only human in the galaxy. One

152

GALAXY

more term to learn true loneliness,
and to come Home to Us.”

"One .more is all 1 ask. For
now,” said Quinlan, smiling, and
he was dispatched.

He was made a mutation, a hair-
less ape with a mind. (And some-
how, Quinlan had contrived to be
bom an Irish ape.) Neither his pa-
rents nor the rest of his tribe under-
stood Quinlan, and he was soon
abandoned. Just as he deserved. So
the matter now stands.

AAAIIIIIIEEEEEEE Eeeeeeeeee
QUINLAN HAS DISRUPTED
THE ALL-SOUL! QUINLAN HAS
WRENCHED US APART WITH
HIS INSANE TONGUE! I HATE
QUINLAN! I WANT TO KILL
QUINLAN! WITH MY OWN
HANDS, I—

I? There is no I. There is only
the All -Soul, of which I — of which
this is a segment. We are One. We
are indissoluble. I don't — I —
DAMN QUINLAN!

(end of record)

There was another tribe of apes.
When Quinlan was ten, a strange
hairless girl was born to them.

The second tribe lived on an is-
land halfway across the planet from
the first. But Quinlan and the girl
found each other. Quinlan came to
her in a leaking, crippled rocket left
over from man’s last empire.

Their first child was slow in com-
ing, but after that there were many.
Quinlan and his wife raised them in
two separate communities. Inter-
breeding was bad genetics, but it
was the only chance they had for
survival as a race.

Danger was constant on man's
last planet. Quinlan didn't live to see
the third generation. He came back,
almost immediately, as his own
granddaughter.

She was very prolific. ★

THE ALL-SOUL IS CALLING QUINLAN

153

DIRECTIONS

Dear Mr. Baen:

Jerry Poumellc’s article in the June
issue of Galaxy was particularly
intriguing. As a meteorologist I found
his report of the lack of solar nutrinos
especially so. That this lack could be
due to the sun having "gone out" fits
with other information. I seem to
remember reading in the local paper a
couple of months ago a article in which
a group of astronomers reported having
detected an increase in the rotational
rate of the sun (this would be hard to
detect since the rotational rate varies by
(attitude). If (he sun were collapsing,
conservation of angular momentum
would cause an increase in its rotational
rate.

In last month's Scientific American,
James Eady described (with highly
convincing evidence) the 400 year
sunspot cycle. Of special interest is the
accompanying chart of annual average
temperature. This should indicate (with
some assumptions) the amount of
energy reaching the Earth. The variation
in annual temperature fit the sunspot
cycle very nicely. (Climatic change can
be explained by these varitation in
temperature. And, as an extention, if
there are 400 year cycles, why not 4
million year cycles end tnus the ending

of whole species?)

Then if the sunspot activity is
evidence of the solar energy producing
mechanism's operation (convection
currents), the absence of these would be
evidence of the lack of a production of
energy (and a lack of nutrinos and a
general cooling and shrinking and
speeding up of the rotation of the sun).

1 work near an office which monitors
solar activity. I wandered through the
other day and casually asked "How’s
business?" The solar forecaster on duty
stifled a yawn and showed me the
single, small, high-lattitude spot on the
sun. Not much for what’s supposed to
be a period of maximum activity in the
1 1 year cycle! James Eady remarked
privately several months ago, “If we
don’t have any activity by lilac time
we're in trouble.” When did the lilacs
bloom?

With the gravitational collapse of the
sun, perhaps the increase in internal
pressure reignites the energy producing
mechanism. The sun would thus expand
as the center becomes hotter and more
energetic. With the primary heat
producing mechanism operating only
where the pressure was sufficient,
convection currents, sunspots, would

As the sun expands, (he pressure in
the center could lessen to the extent
where the mechanism cannot be
supported. Thermal momentum could
carry the expansion well beyond this
point. Then the sun would cool slightly
and (he cycle would repeat.

The sun (and thus others like it)
would be a variable star. An
explanation for the sun’s variability
might explain the nuclear mechanism
for variable stars with a more rapid

154

DIRECTIONS

Whenever [ get a little self-satisfied
about our understanding of the universe,-
something ghastly comes along to
humble me. But I am in a rather lucky
field. Meteorologists don't know
enough about the physics of the Barth's
atmosphere (or any atmosphere) to have
many "proven” theories. Even with all
the geniuses who've graced science,
understanding comes only after years of
dog- work.

Roy Kimbrell

2747 Beale Circle
Omaha. NE 68123

Does complete and final imdersiandinp
ever come at .all? I wonder.

Dear Jim:

Philip Schreffler's article is the sort
of thing we've already had loo much of.
Does the Literary Establishment ignore
sf <St say that it's all Buck Rogers junk?
Very well then, we will ignore the
mainstream & say that it’s all Alexander
Portnoy junk. That'll fix them! Who
wants to belong to their silly old
Establishment anyway?

As I say, it’s been done before
(Campbell did it for years), and it
doesn’t really help. The man who
accepts everything (he Establishment
tells him & the man who rejects
everything the Establishment tells him
are both slaves.

And Sehrcfflcr’s argument is
outdated. As almost everyone else
seems to have noticed, the academic
world has stopped ignoring sf. Now we
have sf courses, and scholarly sf
journals, and even Cliffs Notes so that
the people who have to study the books
don't have to read them.

Funny thing about that. Has anyone
pointed out that (he only contemporary

writers who are noticed by Academe are
those who have already been recognized
by the sf world, like Asimov, Clarke,
Heinlein, Herbert, & Le Guin? Makes
sense, I suppose. Having to wade
through all of sf without a guide is a
fate I would not wish on the most
pompous pedant.

I'm glad (hat some good sf writers
have been recognized, but this situation
does seem to lead to a paradox. Writers
like Silvcrbcrg & Malzbcrg, who arc
perceived by much of the sf world as
too “literary,” fail to get the attention
in their own field that would enable
their supposed natural audience in the
academic world to notice them.

Geis & Alter were up to their usual
high standards, but their call for more
government (perhaps computer-aided)
misses one important point. As
government grows bigger & more
complex, it does an increasingly worse
job of giving people what they want.
Not only does Big Government fail to
satisfy people's need for an Authority
that will tell them what to do & what to
think, but the increase in police- state
methods has made people less safe from
violent crime, and the increase in
welfare-state programs has made people
less financially secure (via inflation).
The increase in the size, complexity, &
apparent power of Big Government has
been matched by a rise in the popularity
of small communities like the Moonics
& the Children of God, which give
people the mental & material security
they crave, often by being more
totalitarian than the government dares to
be.

Arthur Hlavaty

250 Coligni Ave.

New Rochelle, NY 10801

GALAXY

155

Dear Mr. Baen:

Applause, cheers, and much gratitude
for Philip A. Schreffler (May 1977,
“Ray Gun Evaporates Mainstream")
and his assault on the Mainstream
Myth. Sf writers (and readers) are often
arrogant about their field, but few
would dare to claim that sf is the only
“true" literature and all else is just the
"genres" — or worse, trash.

Having been associated with a
university, both as a student taking
futile creative writing courses whose
teachers wished they were good enough
to make money at writing and so spent
half (heir time telling you that writing
should not be for money and as an
editor at a university press, where those
pathetically bad manuscripts kept
coming in from Ph.D.s whose writing
talent should have been confined to
bathroom walls where it could be
painted over now and then, I have had
more than ample exposure to the
pretensions of the literati. And here is
the truth about the myth; “Mainstream"
is never written by anybody good. Good
writers write for the markets — Dickens
for (he newspapers with his dreadful
cliff-hanger chapter endings; Shake-
speare to please the rubbernecking
groundlings; Milton to get brownie
points from Cromwell's super- religious
government; etc. ad infinitum. Then,
fifty years after a particularly popular
writer is dead, all the universities are
studying him. Then, hallowed by the
sacerdotal rites of English 107 and
master's theses (rhymes with feces),
said writers are buried under waste
matter until, at last, they ripen into
"great writers" and are thus models for
the mainstream.

Sadly, huge numbers of young
college students, reasonably intelligent.

arc tricked and brainwashed into
believing that, in order to be a "good"
writer, they must write "like” one of
these baptized-into-the-maitistream dead
writers. Or like John Updike, one or the
other. And should they dare to write
science fiction, besides the Decks of
vomit on their paper as it is returned,
they earn the scorn — if not wrath — of
the professor whose sensibilities have
thus been assaulted.

The mainstream is just one genre,
like any other. I like to call it the
"literary genre" and I happen not to
like the pretensions of its practitioners,
with some few — and delightful —

exceptions. There are other genres I
don't like — westerns, for example, and
big sexy blockbusters (bustblockers?).
There are genres I love — juveniles,
science fiction, mysteries, thrillers,
satire. But my preferences do not label
me tasteless (within each genre I am
certainly capable of making reasonable
judgments about good, bad. and
indifferent); nor do I consent to being
drummed out of the intelligentsia (my
IQ qualifies me for membership in all
but the most exclusive intellectual
cliques). I just don't happen to like the
"mainstream" genre very much, that’s
all.

And that's why I'm glad to learn
through Schreffler’s lovely piece of
writing that I am not alone! I write
science fiction (and juveniles, and
satire) because I love to read those
things — and because I love to write
them. And may all the foulest BEMs of
sf literature defecate on my grave if I
should ever claim to quit writing sf in
order to move "up” to the mainstream.
1 may write mainstream someday — may
even sell it (we all can dream) — but
that's a step sideways.

156

DIRECTIONS

Maybe even a little bit down.

Applause for Schreffler and a of
confidence for Galaxy.

Sincerely,
Orsen Scott Card

31 “L" St. #312

Salt Lake City. Utah 84103

Dear Mr. Baen,

I do not necessarily try to correct a
person when I feel he or she is wrong
about something. But you are a
magazine editor, and as such you
influence thousands — perhaps

millions — of people. And I hate to see
someone in your position of power
influencing people wrongly. So I'm
writing to you.

In your editorial "Epistle to the
1 Christians" (Galaxy. Dec. ’76), you
considered Genesis 1:28, "Be fruitful
and multiply. ...” to be Cod's
“Marching Orders” for (he human race.
And you said that “anyone who both
believes in the Old Testament and
accepts the validity of the foregoing
argument (your interpretation of Genesis
1:28) must consider himself as divinely-
instructed to do all in his power to
further (he progress of humankind into
Space.”

But anyone who has read (he Bible
knows that there are throughout it many
instructions and orders from God to
humankind. When your “Commander”
has been giving you “orders" for
thousands of years, which “order” do
you "fully commit” to? Which order
do you do "all in your power" to obey,
over and above any other order?

You pick the order that seems to be
the "prime directive,” (he order (hat
our "Commander” feels is the main
and most important order; the greatest

A person asked God (Christ), "which
commandment. . .is the greatest?” And
Christ replied, " ‘You shall love the
Lord your God with your whole heart,
with your whole soul and with all your
mind.' This is the greatest and first
commandment. The second is like it;
‘You shall love your neighbor as
yourself.' On these two commandments
the whole law is based, and the
prophets as well." (Matthew 22:36-40)
"There is no other commandment
greater than these.” (Mark 12: 31)

So, for anyone who believes in the
Bible, if there is any “order” that he or
she must "do all in his or her power”
to obey. . .any goal that he or she must
resist and defy any person, process or
philosophy that acts to the detriment of
that goal” . . . any goal (hat he (she)
must be “fully committed to” . . . that
order, that goal must be the one stated
in Matthew 22:36-40 and Mark
12:28-31, not Genesis 1:28.

Sincerely,
Ronald E. Jackowski

121 Union Ave.

Linden, NJ 07036

In what possible way can living in the
spirit of Matthew 22:36-40 and Mark
12:28-31 conflict with Genesis 1-28?

WE

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